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May 2010
His hands were fluttering birds; paper-thin skin stitched together with cerulean veins clung to bones, accentuating the already unnatural length of his fingers.  They hung at his sides, writhing in a nervous agony - sweat glistened on their blushed palms.  Those hands held the moons of Neptune.  "Where are you going?" I asked, a soft echo.  

The young man's head turned and he pulled a sad smile, "Oh, nowhere, really."
(c) SEN 2010
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   Shae Sun James
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