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Jun 2013
The odour of the dandelion spin
raves nonexistence as the train wheels brim:
with a speed as mesmerizing and encapsulating
as hollow tin.
The mind is temporarily frozen with pleasure,
spatially driven with west-headed pressure.
It is questionless; it is speechless...
It is only mildly, yet surely aware of its presence.
And so: ride is what it loves.
Ride is what I shall her give.
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