ant5

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that fold

has always been

in the paper

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you screwed

up my tab

button

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winter retreats

to the hills

above the valley

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no more than

fifteen minutes

twice a day

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in fading

it has become

luminous

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snow on the hills

draws the mist

to their tops

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strange noises

maybe it’s

the cats

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the eyes of

dusk encircle

your house

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tectonic shifts

the red lids slide

onto the floor

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not a train

rumbling a motorcycle

gang

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