Apr 04, 2006 13:35
Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice
as is your image in my eye; dry frost
glazes the window of my hurt; what solace
can be struck from rock to make heart's waste
grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place?
-- Sylvia Plath
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what do you do these days anyways?
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ifg your not here i mihgt ha ve to hunt you down!!!
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