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Forget the dead you left, the living is in the breath as much as in the words. The holy covering is the howling at the moon, the crooning at the shapely temptress at the Casbah. I saw the moon come down tonight, crashing through the western storm like a rose slashing through the skeleton of Omar Khayam, like a flash from the prophet blowing the pneuma of God through the impending darkness of a city gone bad; a soul destined for Hell but somehow blown by the breath back for redemption.
Now is the time of redeeming, trading in that old piece of tattered paper that has no value, that coupon I kept for so long, the one with no date on it. Bring in that piece of worthless shit and suddenly find that it has huge count and a worth beyond measure. Somehow, the cherished scrap means more when you trade it in, when you give it back. It’s not the same. Things have changed.
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