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wolven It's cold, it's morning, it's grey. I step outside in the morning to have my first cigarette of the day, only my patchy leather jacket and pajama pants to guard me from the autumn chill. I wear nothing else because I do not mind the cold, nay I embrace it. I look along the skyline to see tree branches bent like arthritic fingers reaching
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http://www.burningbuilding.com/zombie.htm
Because they do; it's rotting and sweet.
You write in a nice kind of roundabout way. Each sentence is a sort of little trail through the forest of the whole piece. It's what I try for but usually ends up being "Cliched cliche, a cliche of mass proportions, clichedly cliched through the cliche. Blah blah blah."
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