Declining to PinkBrandon Shimoda
The mountains are dressed in a mist of blood. The blade has been withdrawn. It had been thrust, was wiped clean of carnation, and thrown into the precipitations of the river, fast with incriminations. It is lonely without knives; it is cold and lonely without the arms to draw rubies from the earth. We pass through the aid of fields and snow, cold and prone, entrancing blooms.
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