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An End in Itself
It's a circular path into nowhere.
Spiraling, even.
It's not a place of beauty,
I can tell you that,
and it's not a place of hope.
You just can't go there.
At some point in every day,
your breath catches in your throat.
I cry every day. The life with polka dots,
it lives in water.
Source: NPR story about Newtown shootings.
H o w i e
G o o d
H o w i e G o o d
Prelude to the Revolution
Arbus
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