Somehow the warmth of the pricks in her stomach left a cool day in 1993 when she was free and drinking lemonade and the sun kicked down on the wasted cars where they sang at night and the liquids ran in their veins and they screamed and told the space-time continuum wherever is began that the swings still dreamed they just got dimmer the more space there was between them and them when they were singing.
The cactus hurts her but she keeps eating it.
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