The night is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars. Letting in the light, peephole after peephole. A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things. Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus. He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness, stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions. userinfo | friends | archive | allpics | aim
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