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don't you know i can't run run to everything? there is the rise and
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caution, drunk man, you'll soon feel pallor when you reach for that .38 caliber
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and did you capture that subtle empathy
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breathe under me then, girl
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i with a happy smiling shining
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sometimes the uncetainty preceding
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and really i want to tell you about the time i flew. there was once i met a man named we will call [(something tentatively)], and really his house we named joe's, and here there was love and there was speech. and the sun rose
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"just one
half block more and you'll find,"
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i remember the time we walked. do you remember? there was the hint of spring coming through the too-long winter, and the river followed its
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what's your name?
john michael knutson, pronounced kah-noot-sin
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when you're swimming the wind doesn't blow well, the wind is caught up in that draft or this current or when i went to run the small stone made me fall --
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i touched the water today. afterwards the prominent breeze cooled my pinky and i held a small stone in my hand. gripped it. the smooth stone was the perfect size to fit in my fist and i never wanted to let go; i did, the ston
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with the sideglance way you look at
the
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the tears of never falling and the cool breeze of never going meant really death to the soft breaths of now, the subtle steps on cool stones, the longing gazes to nothing-air. it was something that to you or me could happen a
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i was not am not the boy who
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question posed: why do we write? We...yes, we who write, we who really write. In speaking for myself, I may say that there seems to be this
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i'm afraid to be happy because i know that afterwards, i will sink
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every once in a while something swims past you as you cry out and you won't know or see or ever wonder what happened it's that thing i swear or
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oh to sit here all happy smiles i
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there was once i saw the ocean but
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well, with skies all grey i
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oh would you? i will wake up early to
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toma las semillas y
con tierra dame
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