those days are over

a friend of mine told me rimbaud felt there were flames coming from his pen.  he was like nineteen.  when he quit writing poetry.  then he became a slave trader.  i think he may have lost a leg.  anyway, those days are over. the days are always over.  churning.  there should be an infinity somewhere, i can't help thinking about it.  probably mainly because of the dead people and wondering if they are still around.  Like Amanda.  Or my mom. 


some tips

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