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what's wrong with this orange
I'm flipping papers as I browse souls I didn't understand anything you told me tonight as if this is the night before an after I feel cheated and I feel like screaming you sit at the window and look through eyelashes searching for something between thoughts buried in dust you are a variety of general full of ashes with his chest full of tin-medals and  of rags and all kinds of ticks what's wrong with the orange unfolding your eyes you're asking that like a meteor struck by Alzheimer among the crystals of ice and whiskey and intractable mess accumulated in so many years as if the counter would be a black hole and your eyes your clothes forever shabby and a Beatles song it's never going to fade the cigarette smoke and the paper-bags with things left at the door life is a kind of aunt that bequeaths a book with yellowed pages which lets old pictures slip through it's shrouds of her kissing your cheeks when you were as tall as a palm now your bones are cracking and you move like an old man outside but your clothes stay as light as a wing built as a step in a stair a bridge over a water filled with songs and I feel awkward and sad and confused you kissed me on the cheek but the lips are still wet and it's been raining for two days since in outskirts the wind does not blow but caresses your hair, my sorrows, the thoughts what's wrong with you and I'm whiffing the pillows, the leaves
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