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Apr 2
Well traveled leather binding a vault of lost ideas.
Haphazard graffiti
dripping ink down the page.
Crumbled sentences and half-finished
backdrop the soft scratch of the pen
trying to outrace time

Years, composed as fragments,
have no place
outside the white walls where they were born
Only the architect remembers

and still he is mortal
#2 in my Year One collection, from notes on 11/3
Written by
Matt Bernstein  24/M/Atlanta
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