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Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.
More in Dregs & Other Unreadables amidst burnt timberAtop the mesa, I stand
silent as the mule deer pulls at the scrub with her blunt teeth the sunshine is harsh but I love her here as the morning is forgotten with the path I drove to find this place. We call this desert green We call this moment now Atop this mesa, I sit singing as the eagle slices down into the back of a jackrabbit the sunshine is gentle but i hate her here as afternoon remembers the moments that we've molded to make this place. We call this home the road We call this dream then. |
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