| Dreaming screams of sleepless nights when you can't stop losing, losing fights. "Be nice," you say, "and go away. My skin turns blue to black." I hesitate about your fate, but again you turn your back. "I hate you." Do you? "I hate your guts." I can't tell green from red. I leave your side and can't prescribe anything to make you feel less dead. The sky today turns ashen-gray and I leave the dust to dust. As it rains I take no pains to keep my car from rust. |
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