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Monday:2AM

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Monday:2AM
In a state of bubo a leaden itch begins where the cacophony ends, dragging its obsidian skin of molten lava against the gravity, as if a metronome ticking through the earth’s shoulder plates peeling back the illusion of levity, as I sipped my Maker’s Mark, free stone whisky, seeking Sunday mass, stoned in a state of bubo, whispering to the daffodils. 

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