Tuesday, February 23, 2010

T.d. Stubblefieldt.d. Stubblefield/a/b

I want to return to mourn for a discussion. Back to blush in a phone call to my legs tremble, to want to write beautiful sentences. Ever want to be fire ...

Keep me again what I was, but there is nothing left. I'm extinct. There I left my heart, pick up the pieces.

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