But, that's just me.


SummerLove triangles on a Paris rooftop and the lingering taste of each firework,Summer
coupled with the can of beer we found hidden in the cornerstone compound the frightful image of air and height,
no spiral staircase to take us down, the fire exit blocked by birds, we stay and stare above, necks stretching, catching the orange wash-lights,
waiting for something to say. And I long to tell you that this is enough, that this is all, but the words are lost somewhere between the next burst and the next cheer.
Mirage
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GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE...LAZERS DO.
I'm the personification of Dan's impotency at the Gunga Diner
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Blarg!
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All the best!
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Blarg!
you rock!
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Bore, n.: A person who talks when you wish him to listen.
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