It might not mean anything anymore.
It might be just last week's flavor.
It could be a winter's chill in a summer heat that has found it's way into my spine.
Growing to bring cold; a festering wound within a wound.
Or I could be deluded; solitary endeavors spent on a perfectly beautiful day.
I hate every beautiful day.
What good is a gun without someone to pull the trigger?
seems to me we feel the same way.
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