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twenty-third, mar going throughout the neighborhood, i'm stumbling over mismatched slabs of concrete cracks drunk on the scent of orange blossoms orbiting in shapes of hot air balloons around my head. going through all my polaroids within the span of five songs - right now i don't care if it's compulsive! i don't care if they're of flowers! i don't care if it's quaint! this is what the sinking tucsonian sun patiently burns out of me. these romantic notions, they leave my skin red in their fruitation i pull all the pictures out of my back pocket in the cool dark of home; they get me wishing i'll have children so that when i pass away, i can leave them these snapshots of the dying day. |