oh, smell of death.

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this is not my home.
lord, please come.

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it will all come back.

balancing on one wounded wing
circling the edge of the never ending.
the best of the vanished marvels have gathered inside your door.

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dwight schrute.

i talked to him on ichat. it was a treat.

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and what do you do, out of love?

i ache… for who we were.

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