Tuesday 1/15/2008 01:35:00 AM

I was debating with monkey over who came from where. Dark lanterns in the hands of the mischievous make for magnificent religions. His face, like mine, drawn in ink around the hair. His hate as potent. His gods as loud as I was able to hear.

At some point I'm done and it doesn't matter what I want. The floor decides it's time to fall Hanged men can't be revived.

I might die. It's true what he said. But dying is the least of it.

Shotguns at the base of her head, triggers surrounded by paper hands. Bullets of ink wound, but dare not kill. The strangers they call friend.

I could have been an end to this war if only I could stop talking to the dead.

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