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6:20 a.m. - 2002-04-10
Still on the fucking horizon.
"the little girl begins to walk back to the costume party, plucking leaves and flowers to twine together. she hopes the flora will cover her bruises, hide her wounds, and take shape into a gown of such natural-seeming brilliance that the strings of the mad puppets back at the ball will twitch their wooden lips into smiles of envy and delight. she scrapes the bark from a tree to fashion her own wooden face. she will make them all believe that her journey into the woods was a lark. it was nothing more than an excuse to find this glorious costume.

the little boy watches her go. he hestitates just within the edge of the wood. he takes a step toward her to keep her just within his horizon. then he turns back. he stumbles out onto the soft meadow grass and lifts his face into the breeze. the breeze feels like sandpaper upon his face, raw from the tears he has shed for his little girl. he curls up in a ball to sleep in a valley of the meadow which hugs around him warm like a mother's womb. but his sleep is fitful and filled with visions of a dark eyed child wandering alone in the woods. his legs kick against the ground as he tries to follow her through the dream. he awakens, chill with the sweat of his fruitless efforts."



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