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the sparrow is blessed, says the quarantined priest, waiting for the moth
john doe is mummified and relieved, dancing on the severed wing of a nightingale the painting is born in the palm of a maid, swirling like a toad, the paintbrush collapses in an epileptic fit, hitting the ground to the sound of horses pounding the sky to the sound of midgets hung on rainbows to the sound of unicorns and shadows to the sound of crucified clowns and memorial winos the bottle is as thin as a kiss, the silken glass bears the reminiscence of a darkened piano liquefied into a sequel the dusk is soft and crippled by the summer rain it will surely transform into a mirror as all sunburned peepholes do, one after another in an endless row of garments and columns literally ripped apart by the shrewd Mediterranean storm, but intact in the end … just like a cruel puppet in a lethargic posture
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