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Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Premonition of Danger


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The air is growing cold and there's nothing you can do. Soon there will be no gauze inside the confessional. There is no light in the darkest of your furthest reaches. The ocean floor is hidden from the viewing lens, a depth perception languished in the night. All my life, I've been sowing the wounds, but the seeds sprout a lachrymal cloud. -- The Mars Volta

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