Sunday, February 05, 2006

Immure, scabrous, machinate, and fusty

Trapped in this foul, fusty shell, breathlessly waiting for my chance to break. I devise countless plans though all come to naught, because I need hope to hold, able or not. I don't know how to explain the darkness ahead, the unknown cloud that looms when I go to bed. I try to open my mouth but no sound comes out. I try to close my mouth but then I shout. I can't do anything right, sometimes, and that's what I worry about.

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