пятніца, 14 снежня 2007 г.


by Prof. Froz Scrote'um

Since the loss, many people had been and gone. One was here and then not, another in the sky as company for the departed and a smile for energy.

'It's poetry' he thought as a slick and wafer-thin razor-wire cut out an angled wedge from one of his calf muscles. The puking had since receded and the leaking from his right eye had crusted over with a black beetle.

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