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Slipping myself into little boxes tonight: books from good friends, old friends, temporary friends, friendships that have died or passed. Relationships to, all old loves now. Music that meant something or will find new meaning at some other time or place. Words fill my lungs like straw. Fire is memory, maybe, leveling my world, or releasing it's potency into my atmosphere. I haven't time to decide, there's too much hanging on the here and now and what will be to take in the entire picture. It's in the process that you figure out what little you hold and how much you want. "I don't want the world, I just want your half.." Looking down now inside the boxes, it still doesn't look like much, but it is in these things I abide. They are evidence; proof I suppose, and they are all I have.
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