today the pomegranate-sun does not spill maternally over row after row of grey hills, her sleeping soldiers; she sits yellow and soggy, a putrid bile color, heaving her sweaty anonymous girth to sponge grey hills in grey.
today is very dull and very emptied and unstable, like a great stark bed without pillows or sheets. no great swoop of light streaks across the celing from chinks in the doorway; all the world sits stagnant in a noxious mist of army grey. what will fill this bottle which has been drunk?
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