sometimes you just want to let the poem glide away but you’re afraid of what it might say about you though you know everyone knows already but that’s hardly the point of all the wasted nights developing bad tastes into the tender and pastel dawn with who can remember at this point all the lives you meant to live the expeditions and raids the ballads campfires recitals karaoke bars and I forget where I was going with this though that leads us full circle down some drain

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