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Aug 2013
Fan
There's a fan inside the window, its blades cut my dreams as I sleep like the knives in the kitchen we heat just to try and get high
But we smoke with a torch, oil as dark as earth soil, and cigarettes on the front porch
I left the jungle filled with lions for an island with an owl
The painted clock moves only when it wants too but it's cool because
I hate knowing what time it is unless I have too
Written by
Alexander Ross
566
 
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