Beaten eyes, and I don’t have a single memory of happiness. My shoes are holy. I don’t care. Not really. Bending these fingers, to type these words, and for what? To feel Everything. To feel alive. Running back to the woods. A dog running from trucks. Rain splash and gun shots pop by two, silence. Drinking for warmth. Sleeping for death. I’m the definition of the word courage. — at Dinosaur Gardens.
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Adventures In American Writing 