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A Micro Graphic Novel Project
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Performance
By s clemens
http://throb.typepad.com/throb
Johnny was a bad boy. Food for him was a tool.
The spring morning tasted acrid, like a mouth full of pennies. The air wept with potency and blood.
This was the tree papa planted - now, just like mother, cut deep on a fair spring morn. Curse the blood in my veins. We are her children, chanting to pass the time, as my ripping blade discovers the truth of past times and past places.
This much I know: I cannot fail now.
There is much to be learned from a burning pyre of wood; there is much to rejoice in. The end comes with speed and beauty to all the things you love.
Merrily merrily we row this boat of wood.
My only wish is we love like we should.
We light our fires and warm our hearts,
Forever being lost on timeless, sanguine charts.
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