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a potpourri of sense and feminine lunacy

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sometimes

I smelt its dankness as i passed its carcass-cold waters, grey as death. Grim as a heartbreak. Around me, they beat feebly in disarray. Some broken, some mended, others gashed and bleeding. Some hardened. Some congealed with self-love. Some knotted in fear. Their fragments, shattered, are flung far.

They cannot find themselves again.

M # Saturday, January 17, 2009.