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His head is a little interior of grey mirrors
Drains like water out the hole at the far end
The dead smell of fresh wounds
The white light that opens the doors
I can feel the daylight
A bonewhite light
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors
Drains like water out the hole at the far end
He suffers this desert heat
Stretching its fine, irritating sand
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors
Drains like water out the hole at the far end
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