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I Am Santo

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Poor Puff

It bled blue stars among fragments of strewn mica, the waste of nostalgic longing and memories bound to forgettable things. It didn’t matter, the shatter of glass a hope released from holding. For a moment it seems wise: unleash dragons from their watery graves and douse worlds in fresh fire. Cleanse and cauterize this diseased soil and leave behind the glimmer of promise, a path of freedom’s folly stretched before us as if an oasis among pained sands that plummet from gulf to trench, marking the passage of years and the birth of maturity. It is the death of youth, this fracture of the small things held dear but likely left to blurred memory of sand, hope, fright, and indigo starshine released by carelessness.

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