snow is creeping down the foothills. drawn out to a cold prairie, shameless with window-lights.

each flake a cold kiss she brushes off	look at how we fold perfectly into the night	Songs from a solstice hymnal	The boat dreams from the hill
Lincoln still melancholy over his broken engagement, January 23, 1841	It's Fred Dunderhill's Life	Why I play russian roulette with five bullets	January 18, 2007
Walking After Midnight

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