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Each hour passes as in a day. First, second, third it began. Now, Saturday, soon Friday again. If only the dreaded days are kinder, less hostile to the mind. If only memories fill pages - - A trip, a nightout, a conversation while traversing unknown streets at night. But days have become prayers uttered with every breath, with nights far longer and more threatening in one's isolation. I think about the city lights as souls. Do not die out, do not die out, I cry into the night. My breath I lift up as incense to the Sky. I pray for flickers that are not consumed. I ask for less stars in the heavenlies and more hopeful ones in the Metro. I poke at Venus now. I tell her: Dispense your warmth. Let it glow within us. She is beauty but she mocks. 050220
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May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 1:26 PM UTC
I throw my fist at the night
you look happier without these ragged edges overlapped colors smudged painting as i paint you without my touch
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May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 2:44 AM UTC
art of touch
It feels like we are in a movie. A disaster one. Everyone is dying and we don’t know who’s next. However, some can already predict it. The only difference between a disaster movie and of what’s going on in the world now is that we can do something. We can help the people who are evidently in need. WE CAN DO THIS. LET’S START NOW.
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Apr 20, 2020
Apr 20, 2020 at 12:38 PM UTC
LET’S START NOW.