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APRIL VELA |
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Royal Superstition “I don’t want to be a tragedy,” cried the sweet cloud of dark sorrow upon the muse of an idle God. Rose-colored guitars explode within your heart. Sweet rain in the month of Jupiter spits fire in the hallway of desire through the gutter’s of an ocean black. Fireflies call the fish to leap against the orange moon of a mountain pillow. Frogs on rainbows of rocket ships fly like demons of a greater evil.
To My Wife: Love, We Must Part Now |
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