Wednesday

in the autumn fall

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In the nefarious days of  Paris__ 1994 _  working the street avenue of the learned boulevards
 Jill wrote an epitaph a forum a song a throne of thing and feel. Not wishing for the past rudiment her blessing piled high the russet tussle of   lips
 
as it went so it did   ~:



  Fanny her self the griever. His KNight was a pair of ropes  in the love horn
way of womean and other becomings. Who was who in this world of ebb 
becoming?  the reflection which cast all darkness down__ Jill had
been away  so long and, there was no night left,  for the translator of
spills and light. Other animals  crept along the predatory route  
desire and desire’s heels. Couple to couple, safe house to safe in the
big city that is the way it went.

If fictions hold your song then Franny must belong.
Ruins are not are comedic. power grabs hustling you along the verb.
Capsized by fakes, voyeurs, two bit timers, and governments
sans song . O this word remembers a prince picking his bones
in the wheat.
She wears his throne like any handy ring. Wedded to his intent.
Garnered by his pleasure, waits and weep







Disappearing up the tunnel of discontent
and its civilizations, its telnet fractures of post human trauma. 





 What could she do but see her way past the forest?

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