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...for April

A silent room and empty bed, echoing halls where dust lies... Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours--an oppressive limbo of massive time-- and the room becomes a prison Somewhere, a fly buzzes, its flight marked by discordant rasp of tiny laboring wings, and it too senses the ebb of time; the stifling ebb of time known only to those alone... Sleeping, I escape-- and the future merges rapidly with dawn... But, in the stillness of night, I turn, reaching, searching for you, finding only emptiness --and the massive mantle of time descends once again... November 25, 1974

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Last updated: Saturday, 03-Jan-2015 18:12:47 PST