screaming before the half-closed window, I am ravenous, here perched on the counter between two loaves of bread. and you are filling me, pouring it in my tank and I am smiling, though I am never full.
This started out as a journal of heartache and Westward expansion, but as time goes by, it is becoming a little backyard in which I experiment with an old and disreputable hobby: poetry. Most people's poetry is horrible and I am no exception; thus, the anonymity.
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