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If Days Were Blackjack Each Night I Would Bust
Gloaming is the harbinger of nightfall.
And since 10th grade, 8 p.m. has been my hour
of reckoning. After Eight, I’ve said
so many times, and meant after nightfall.
I’m saying it now and it’s not even night.
I know what’s coming, and yet I don’t.
Night sets in like a fever.
Not Even Playing
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