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.
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