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I walk. A ghost which looks like you in the fog, it is just a memory which has yet to be burned away by the dawn. The mornings are now damp, a gossamer of fog wraps itself around everything. I walk among the canals, there is a scent, anisette and spoiled milk, which makes me dizzy. I walk. I stumble. I know. |
| Wayne H.W Wolfson: WWOLFSON@aol.com |
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