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Thursday, 4 October 2012

Hope

The acrid taste, rusted, rushed, ancient as time itself, rises.
While golden orbs play, dancing across your vision, scattering the darkness as a warm gust of air scatters sand.

Even the shadow seems a little brighter today.

Running ahead of you, the scent of the sun trailing tanned from behind.

The climb, then the fall. Now returns the darkness
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