Sunday, January 31, 2010

A cup of coffee or a shot of rum, whatever it is you drink tonight. I know it's not one. The barber returns home with a silver blade. The mist were in her eyes. But I'm on the dreamy streets below, lit by the moon and crayon. I know a song or two. I saw a tree shiver. I don't wish to be here long. Who can ever tell.
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