Twice an era comes a knock at my door, suspended in a window-crashing gaze of a poor spark of recognition. It's the thrill that dies first, but, I can think of something worse: the curse. Light up gold was the color of something I was looking for. Steady was the pace kept in that tear-leaking sway, sifting like miner through the conscience debris, hunched down, gleaning embers from a burning field trying to find something warm and real.
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