Choking on a splinter in the night...the plight...I need to write like a fighter needs to fight, but my computer electronically decomposes when my insides are twisted like muscodine grape vines strangling a hundred year old live oak..the irony in the name when at a hundred it's so close to death.
If only I could sleep, not weep a wound into velvety blood, running o'er, stop the Goddamn flood. Weary and weak, the sunlight is bleak in....
...the night.
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