So says my grandmother at the speculative last. In her kitchen as never-dying-deathbed, waiting waiting loverlike, Candy Darling's hospital end. No that's not what this here is about.
Only that she is correct, insofar as for a we that includes myself, cracked too is my povre shape of whatever you would call this period. A snow cone that is a flower, on fire, coals, bleary...crackling the ice no longer concealing—merely to enclose.
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