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Summary.


Submitted:Mar 27, 2009    Reads: 80    Comments: 5    Likes: 1   


I write to "no one", because "no one" will listen. They will hear but never listen. They will see but always blindly. There are so many voices screaming incessantly through the darkened layrinth of my lurid mind. They are never silent but always uncommunicative. They say nothing and everything. They say everything is nothing. I am nothing, no one. Just a drop of cold rain shaped like a boy, my life a quick descent ending in a painless suicide on the hard, uncaring pavement. Is it raining today? Is there something more to say, in this pounding play?





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