Friday, January 09, 2009

The skies over a fog invested island have become dotted with pink snorts.

And if you follow the placid river. Past the towering bridge and the glittering loot. Past where the tin man now sits in spray-can copper. Past where the wigs are flung in arguments. Where the river slims. You shall see.

You shall see. That her feet have finally grown wings.

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