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cry your eyes out
-----------------------
it will break you, break your silly little heart
if you let it get to you one fucking bit
but don't ask me to pick up the pieces, i can't even find my own
and goddamn all i want is a working vein and a full rig
a warm body next to me
and a cold one to wash the bitter taste of life away
but wish all you want, sometimes the best you can get is death
her cold cunt sloppy with all the blood and rage and pain
that you fed her over the years
when you put your head down
down to cry
down so you don't have to look at the world just for a second
then you're giving in, to yourself, to the misery of loneliness
but hey, hey kid
you're going to be at this a long damn time so you might as well put the work in
be about this life, because as the russians say
a thief's home is prison
and i don't know anyone that isn't a thief, murderer, and junkie
we're all the same and all so fucking pretty in the right light
somewhere under the great texas sky there's salvation
justification
or the closest thing to it that people like us get
hey brother, i miss you
i caught your last breath and stored it up with the rest of them
i don't have enough words or fists or whatever to encompass the dying breaths
that i have inhaled
friend or foe
it doesn't matter, we all die the same
amazing grace dancing it's way across my brain as my eardrums reverbrate
punk rock anger and angst and
who the fuck are you to judge anyways?
i'm never coming back to the man i once was, but i can live with that
can you?
no, or else you'd still be here
and the flesh would have all it wants instead of these punch drunk words
the bottle is the same, the needle, the smiley and the blade
yeah, i'm sick
with the indolent opium dreams of centuries long gone past
it's the irish in me, singing hail hail and then screaming fuck you
i don't hear so good
too many magazines ripped through right next to my ear
blood-mad howl lost to the roar of the rifle
boy, i'm so fucking cold and hard that i'm on fire with it
the muse will wait
and i'm riding out again, death on my shoulder along with all the dead ones
swastika ugly and rude in your face
hatred and pain and love for the right ones etched all into my bones
bleeding through
and falling down my cheeks into your open
waiting
and ever-so-hungry mouth
Untitled
it will break you, break your silly little heart
if you let it get to you one fucking bit
but don't ask me to pick up the pieces, i can't even find my own
and goddamn all i want is a working vein and a full rig
a warm body next to me
and a cold one to wash the bitter taste of life away
but wish all you want, sometimes the best you can get is death
her cold cunt sloppy with all the blood and rage and pain
that you fed her over the years
when you put your head down
down to cry
down so you don't have to look at the world just for a second
then you're giving in, to yourself, to the misery of loneliness
but hey, hey kid
you're going to be at this a long damn time so you might as well put the work in
be about this life, because as the russians say
a thief's home is prison
and i don't know anyone that isn't a thief, murderer, and junkie
we're all the same and all so fucking pretty in the right light
somewhere under the great texas sky there's salvation
justification
or the closest thing to it that people like us get
hey brother, i miss you
i caught your last breath and stored it up with the rest of them
i don't have enough words or fists or whatever to encompass the dying breaths
that i have inhaled
friend or foe
it doesn't matter, we all die the same
amazing grace dancing it's way across my brain as my eardrums reverbrate
punk rock anger and angst and
who the fuck are you to judge anyways?
i'm never coming back to the man i once was, but i can live with that
can you?
no, or else you'd still be here
and the flesh would have all it wants instead of these punch drunk words
the bottle is the same, the needle, the smiley and the blade
yeah, i'm sick
with the indolent opium dreams of centuries long gone past
it's the irish in me, singing hail hail and then screaming fuck you
i don't hear so good
too many magazines ripped through right next to my ear
blood-mad howl lost to the roar of the rifle
boy, i'm so fucking cold and hard that i'm on fire with it
the muse will wait
and i'm riding out again, death on my shoulder along with all the dead ones
swastika ugly and rude in your face
hatred and pain and love for the right ones etched all into my bones
bleeding through
and falling down my cheeks into your open
waiting
and ever-so-hungry mouth
Loading...

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i keep saying that i'm coming back
that this time it's for real and i'm done with the games
no more
but there ain't no coming home when it's something you never had
you sit there, the pain so omnipresent, so heavy
that you just want to cry and rage and drink
fuck and fight
fuck or fight or bust a fifty, motherfuckers
that's what we say inside
and you can say all the good bill w bull that you want
go to classes, try to get that 20 or make that parole
but the reality is that you're going to be back
and you ain't never coming home
just back out to the streets, with your angry vulnerability and hopeless muse
you can say it's in the blood, spill it out
but whatever the cause, there's no cure
and you can try your best to put it in remission, the sickness is still there
didn't exactly set that ole world on fire, did you?
just some things and some people, quite literally
and the alphabet people want to know so much about that and everything else
testify, motherfucker, do it and set me free
i'm carrying so many bodies around that a few less
would be such a relief
you see, being the real thing amongst fakes will bring you nothing but hatred
envy
and the occasional robbery
when you walk so tall that the words just fail them
fall down to the concrete and shatter
just like my fist through your teeth, like a teenager's dreams
don't blame me, baby
i was never there and you just made up a space, shaped like me
saying all the things that you wanted me to be capable of
but the reality of it all is that i know two words
destruction and desperation
self against self against the world and fuck it all
burn it down
take it all into yourself and explode
like i do so many days and mornings and late nights, strangling hope
so this is just so many words
and i'm probably just going back to prison anyway
so acceptance is beyond me, so is prudent caution or rationality
or hope
yet i still pray
for what i'm not entirely sure
but i still do, and every now and then i can find the miracle
and then
it's better than anything i can put in my vein

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wish we could have got there...
--------------------------------------
first comes hope, then comes caring
you start to circle each other, a little way lest you fall into the past and be consumed...
well, sometimes it happens fast and sometimes slow
but yall all hate me in the end, i guess it comes from having a cock and almost zero ability to lie
you see, the fakes, the cheaters, the liars, and other useless bastards have evolved to be the new thing
the latest model on the showroom floor, all tuned up with viagra and all that shit they sell in those magazines
yeah, the ones that i don't read because i don't need nobody to tell me how to be a man
i learned how to be one watching my father shatter his hands on walls as my mother tried to kill him
(he gave up the wall thing, but she's still doing her best to kill or drive us mad, thus in part
I leave for good soon and don't be planning to attend the burial, bitch, you fucking done enough for me)
then beating the shit out of niggers three times my size in new orleans and southwest houston
and my first brother dead cause i fucked up and stopped to light a cigarette
(don't worry, homeboy - we put so many bullets in their club you probably could have used it for a giant sieve
draining out the wonder and joy of childhood, leaving the pain and misery of burdens assumed young
and carried long
i'll never be free...if you asked me if i wanted good fuck or a good kill, i'd be hard-pressed to pick
and i've never been to a wedding, just all them goddamn funerals)
the funny thing is that no one ever asked me what an 11 year-old had all that blood on his clothes for?
strange old world, ain't it?
but that shit don't matter nohow...I kept learning, in juvenile gladiator dorms
watching more friends mowed down by bullets and learning the intricacies of teenage gang warfare
then...a respite
the dumb fucks released me to my family that had finally made enough to go to good old suburbia...
god damn their souls and i'd have been better dead then
you see, i got away from the game and callow use of others and the bond of brothers
only to discover this thing called love
love and music, man, they sure fucked me up something fierce
showed me depths that i never dreamt of
enough that i started to write poetry (damn me to hell for that)
even fell for a few split-legs and endured the ups and downs and told myself
yeah, ain't this great?
i can love someone, never thought i'd be able to do that
how wonderful true naivete can be, right?
discovered that the fucking was even better when i actually knew the woman and cared at least some
or so i thought it was...and, no lie, the physical loving was better
but eventually came senseless heart-break, when it's not your fault or hers
just dumb blind misfortune, one molecule zigged when it shoulda weaved
something like that
and we couldn't stand each other and i couldn't stand having to hide the guns all the time
(fucking lot of work when you have about fifty and some are rather large
besides, cunt, where's my son?
oh yeah, you splattered him all over the motherfucking bathroom one morning
needle still in your arm when stupid, hopeful me came running)
so there i was, back at the grind again...had my time in the sun
more like holiday in cambodia, but you take what you can get, right?
i didn't know no better, so there i went again...loveless
untouchable
and a machine of pure misery and murder, perfect in every way
i didn't care about who i fucked, who i tortured, beat, killed, or anything else
just my own simple code of honor was enough for me
i married, once, to keep the federal charges off of me
and i will never do so again
so this long storm passed on and kept passing on, blood and tears in equal mixture
(not my tears, tell you that for free, love...
i was cold and dead and perfect
for our honeymoon, i fucked my wife in the ass
told her, that's as much dick as you're getting from me
try to divorce me to testify, and i'll kill you without thinking twice)
at the time i was simply being honest and practical, after all
it's not like i wanted or even suggested the marriage
i escaped that durance, as i have gotten away from so few of life's burdens
and then found myself thinking of sunshine and water, of roses and a tender embrace
someone who cared about me for more than security or dope or whatever bullshit
i became a fool for it, constantly trying to find that perfect madwoman
the right blend of fool and sage, whore and divine
until it wore me down to a creature of raw needs again
except now the everpresent needle became the omnipresent one
and i destroyed myself and everything around me as ardently as i once fucked for love
another stint in prison cured me, i let myself belief
but i'm still empty and cold, alone and cursed
and the funny part?
i should have come to terms with this a long time ago, because there is nothing in life for me
but the crack of bone
the bittersweet smell of hot gunsmoke
the roar of the fire consuming my sins
the sting of the needle offering temporary respite
i would love and be loved if it were possible
there is no more fervent desire in my heart
but it is time to start training the machine again
losing the connection with the meat world, becoming that steel spine
that heartless stare
as i inflict pain beyond measure, as i feed your addiction to salve my hurt
and live in this cold, lifeless void
alone save for my honor
if it pains you to see this, don't fucking look
it won't go on for very long
the next cop that gets fly or steps in my way
i will kill and savor it
and keep killing
until there is nothing left of me to ever redeem
see, i could have saved all that time and bullshit?
and i suppose that you could still counterbalance me from being that thing
but let's not kid each other
the first time you see me kill someone and my expression doesn't much change
(unless they make a mess - nothing worse than a fucker who won't just die clean)
you'll run
and you'll be right to
because i never was human, just never found it in me
or maybe dear old parents didn't
but most of you motherfuckers can suck dick in hell
especially you goddamn content, smug, wasteful little shits
i'll be by to pour your hourly bucket of piss and coals
just hold on tight
this shit don't even hurt...but they say it's all relative, right?
wish we could have got there...
first comes hope, then comes caring
you start to circle each other, a little way lest you fall into the past and be consumed...
well, sometimes it happens fast and sometimes slow
but yall all hate me in the end, i guess it comes from having a cock and almost zero ability to lie
you see, the fakes, the cheaters, the liars, and other useless bastards have evolved to be the new thing
the latest model on the showroom floor, all tuned up with viagra and all that shit they sell in those magazines
yeah, the ones that i don't read because i don't need nobody to tell me how to be a man
i learned how to be one watching my father shatter his hands on walls as my mother tried to kill him
(he gave up the wall thing, but she's still doing her best to kill or drive us mad, thus in part
 I leave for good soon and don't be planning to attend the burial, bitch, you fucking done enough for me)
then beating the shit out of niggers three times my size in new orleans and southwest houston
and my first brother dead cause i fucked up and stopped to light a cigarette
(don't worry, homeboy - we put so many bullets in their club you probably could have used it for a giant sieve
 draining out the wonder and joy of childhood, leaving the pain and misery of burdens assumed young
 and carried long
 i'll never be free...if you asked me if i wanted good fuck or a good kill, i'd be hard-pressed to pick
 and i've never been to a wedding, just all them goddamn funerals)
the funny thing is that no one ever asked me what an 11 year-old had all that blood on his clothes for?
strange old world, ain't it?
but that shit don't matter nohow...I kept learning, in juvenile gladiator dorms
watching more friends mowed down by bullets and learning the intricacies of teenage gang warfare
then...a respite
the dumb fucks released me to my family that had finally made enough to go to good old suburbia...
god damn their souls and i'd have been better dead then
you see, i got away from the game and callow use of others and the bond of brothers
only to discover this thing called love
love and music, man, they sure fucked me up something fierce
showed me depths that i never dreamt of
enough that i started to write poetry (damn me to hell for that)
even fell for a few split-legs and endured the ups and downs and told myself
yeah, ain't this great?
i can love someone, never thought i'd be able to do that
how wonderful true naivete can be, right?
discovered that the fucking was even better when i actually knew the woman and cared at least some
or so i thought it was...and, no lie, the physical loving was better
but eventually came senseless heart-break, when it's not your fault or hers
just dumb blind misfortune, one molecule zigged when it shoulda weaved
something like that
and we couldn't stand each other and i couldn't stand having to hide the guns all the time
(fucking lot of work when you have about fifty and some are rather large
 besides, cunt, where's my son?
 oh yeah, you splattered him all over the motherfucking bathroom one morning
 needle still in your arm when stupid, hopeful me came running)
so there i was, back at the grind again...had my time in the sun
more like holiday in cambodia, but you take what you can get, right?
i didn't know no better, so there i went again...loveless
untouchable
and a machine of pure misery and murder, perfect in every way
i didn't care about who i fucked, who i tortured, beat, killed, or anything else
just my own simple code of honor was enough for me
i married, once, to keep the federal charges off of me
and i will never do so again
so this long storm passed on and kept passing on, blood and tears in equal mixture
(not my tears, tell you that for free, love...
 i was cold and dead and perfect
 for our honeymoon, i fucked my wife in the ass
 told her, that's as much dick as you're getting from me
 try to divorce me to testify, and i'll kill you without thinking twice)
at the time i was simply being honest and practical, after all
it's not like i wanted or even suggested the marriage
i escaped that durance, as i have gotten away from so few of life's burdens
and then found myself thinking of sunshine and water, of roses and a tender embrace
someone who cared about me for more than security or dope or whatever bullshit
i became a fool for it, constantly trying to find that perfect madwoman
the right blend of fool and sage, whore and divine
until it wore me down to a creature of raw needs again
except now the everpresent needle became the omnipresent one
and i destroyed myself and everything around me as ardently as i once fucked for love
another stint in prison cured me, i let myself belief
but i'm still empty and cold, alone and cursed
and the funny part?
i should have come to terms with this a long time ago, because there is nothing in life for me
but the crack of bone
the bittersweet smell of hot gunsmoke
the roar of the fire consuming my sins
the sting of the needle offering temporary respite
i would love and be loved if it were possible
there is no more fervent desire in my heart
but it is time to start training the machine again
losing the connection with the meat world, becoming that steel spine
that heartless stare
as i inflict pain beyond measure, as i feed your addiction to salve my hurt
and live in this cold, lifeless void
alone save for my honor
if it pains you to see this, don't fucking look
it won't go on for very long
the next cop that gets fly or steps in my way
i will kill and savor it
and keep killing
until there is nothing left of me to ever redeem
see, i could have saved all that time and bullshit?
and i suppose that you could still counterbalance me from being that thing
but let's not kid each other
the first time you see me kill someone and my expression doesn't much change
(unless they make a mess - nothing worse than a fucker who won't just die clean)
you'll run
and you'll be right to
because i never was human, just never found it in me
or maybe dear old parents didn't
but most of you motherfuckers can suck dick in hell
especially you goddamn content, smug, wasteful little shits
i'll be by to pour your hourly bucket of piss and coals
just hold on tight
this shit don't even hurt...but they say it's all relative, right?
Loading...
Every time I'm locked up I spend the whole time making plans about what I'm going to do so that my life matters. Every time I tell myself (and all the other woods I sit around bullshitting with...heh, I guess that's why they call it bullshitting) that I'm going to do things differently. No more dope, no more guns, no more wasting my time with bullshit cats and trifling hos, that I'm going to aim for the sky, make my dreams come true, do this, do that. It's easy to be brave about how you gonna do things when you don't have to do anything other than bang hard through the day, hustle up your little bit to make it, and play all the convict games (everything from tearing up signs and lights to make tattoo guns to gambling to stealing food out the kitchens to whatever). But then you get out into the world and damn it feel good...but once that wears off (want to know what I've done for the past 3 days? Ain't slept, got high, got laid, got drunk, and now I've slept and sobered up and and and...) you have to face the truth of things.
The truth is that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Sure, I have all my plans laid out. I have most of the money. I don't need to ask any man for a motherfucking thing. So why haven't I started doing anything? You take all the guesses you want...the truth is that it scares me. I'm out of excuses. I'm not getting back on the dope. I have no reason to go back to destroying myself and all the reasons not to. I don't have some fucked-up ho holding me back. I have nothing right now except for all the capabilities to do what I been dreaming and talking about. So I guess I just need to shut the fuck up and do it. But I felt like spitting this out because it's how I feel and...well, I don't need to explain a goddamn thing to anyone. You either been there or you haven't.
  • Listening to: the screams in my read
  • Reading: the writing on the walls
  • Watching: the smoke rise...and rise again...
  • Playing: with myself (you can play too)
  • Eating: cheap food
  • Drinking: coffee
Every time I'm locked up I spend the whole time making plans about what I'm going to do so that my life matters. Every time I tell myself (and all the other woods I sit around bullshitting with...heh, I guess that's why they call it bullshitting) that I'm going to do things differently. No more dope, no more guns, no more wasting my time with bullshit cats and trifling hos, that I'm going to aim for the sky, make my dreams come true, do this, do that. It's easy to be brave about how you gonna do things when you don't have to do anything other than bang hard through the day, hustle up your little bit to make it, and play all the convict games (everything from tearing up signs and lights to make tattoo guns to gambling to stealing food out the kitchens to whatever). But then you get out into the world and damn it feel good...but once that wears off (want to know what I've done for the past 3 days? Ain't slept, got high, got laid, got drunk, and now I've slept and sobered up and and and...) you have to face the truth of things.
The truth is that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Sure, I have all my plans laid out. I have most of the money. I don't need to ask any man for a motherfucking thing. So why haven't I started doing anything? You take all the guesses you want...the truth is that it scares me. I'm out of excuses. I'm not getting back on the dope. I have no reason to go back to destroying myself and all the reasons not to. I don't have some fucked-up ho holding me back. I have nothing right now except for all the capabilities to do what I been dreaming and talking about. So I guess I just need to shut the fuck up and do it. But I felt like spitting this out because it's how I feel and...well, I don't need to explain a goddamn thing to anyone. You either been there or you haven't.
  • Listening to: the screams in my read
  • Reading: the writing on the walls
  • Watching: the smoke rise...and rise again...
  • Playing: with myself (you can play too)
  • Eating: cheap food
  • Drinking: coffee

Journal History

deviantID

lcipher42
Sickboy
Artist | Professional | Varied
United States
I'm a young (relatively speaking) lunatic with a strange compulsion to write about my life and observations. I'm into hardcore poetry, various other forms of art, violence, computers, rough sex, drugs, more drugs, working out, reading, and all kinds of other stuff.
This is a lot more current, accurate, and revealing picture of myself than any other that I've uploaded. Make of it what you will. Two cups of coffee, judge not.
And I'd love to meet other poets and artists in Texas, so if you like my stuff and would like to meet to talk art, hang out, or whatever, just send me a note.

Current Residence: Richmond, Texas
Favourite genre of music: punk rock
Favourite photographer: Peter Beste
Favourite style of art: biomechanical
Operating System: Linux
MP3 player of choice: XMMS or Zen
Shell of choice: /bin/bash
Wallpaper of choice: Anything w/ sexy tattooed chicks!
Skin of choice: Tattooed & Scarred
Personal Quote: "I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees"
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:icontwistedanger:
TwistedAnger Featured By Owner May 26, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Excuse me sir....
I think I remember you.
Was it that dive bar?
The one soaked in whiskey and clouds of smoke.
Or perhaps it was a dream,
one of knives.
I seem to remember blood and washing it down with shots.
Hot shots, cold eyes and a slow southern drawl.
Was that you in the corner collecting dust...
as blood dried and flaked like rust?
Trust I remember you from somewhere...

:heart: A small reminder that I still live Milord ;) 
Reply
:iconhalfloner:
Halfloner Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2012  Student Writer
About the quote in your avatar... who is Cipher? I'd really like to know because I have a character in a novel that I am making, with the same name. And that definitely looks like something he would say...
Reply
:iconlcipher42:
lcipher42 Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2012  Professional General Artist
It's a triple entendre. Louis Cipher is (firstly) the name I go under online so that I don't wreck my career using my real name. But the first reference is to Angel Heart (an awesome old Mickey Rourke flick) and the name of a character that De Niro plays in it (think about the pronunciation, not the spelling). The second is because I'm a cipher, which is in itself a reference to my interest in cryptography. The third is a reference to another meaning of cipher, which is zero.
Feel free to use the name, it's not like I own it or anything. My real world handle is Sickboy (like the old Social Distortion song : [link] ; since I always sport a black leather jacket and a switchblade...and generally have a girl under each arm, though that hasn't been going so great lately).
Reply
:iconhalfloner:
Halfloner Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2012  Student Writer
Cipher is an awesome last name to have. I'm a bit too young to know about any old movies and cryptography sounds technical. But that triple entendre is cool. Links to many things that you can identify yourself with. Only have a handful of social distortion but great band. Sir, you are a cool badass. Reminds me of a friend I have, but we live in different worlds... Well, thanks for the talk and I wish you good luck. (with the ladies as well, if that's what you'd like.)
Reply
:iconlcipher42:
lcipher42 Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2012  Professional General Artist
You're never too young to know about good movies. There isn't such a generation gap these days. I watch a movie from the 50s and think "bullshit, that motherfucker wouldn't say that before he shot himself" or whatever. But we started being honest with ourselves back in the 70s so anything after that is fair game. And it's not that old a movie...1980something at the oldest. And cryptography is just applied math. But yeah, Cipher rocks. And so does Social D - I grew up on them and have seen them play at least 3 times.
To quote another Mickey Rourke line (from Barfly, which is about Charles Bukowski and I seriously suggest you check it out, as well as the book Hollywood which Bukowski wrote about the making of the movie...that's a trip, eh?) : "I can get a woman. For about 10 minutes." Rough quote. But that's about how long I can give a shit these days. People just aren't extreme enough lately.
Thank you, thank you very much. I'm here nightly...and twice on Saturdays. *dah-dum-crash*
Reply
:iconmelalina:
Melalina Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2012  Professional General Artist
The flag behind you (Nazi?) would indicate that you probably don't like my kind. It does matter to me, but I can tolerate it. I still think your writing is worth the read and the feature. If you'd rather have do dealings with me, I will take the feature out of the journal.
Reply
:iconlcipher42:
lcipher42 Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2012  Professional General Artist
I don't know or care what your kind is, to be honest. Every person (no matter who they are) gets one chance, and one chance only, with me. Do good with that and you'll be good in my book. I could tell you a lot of things about my history and past that would make you understand where I come from and why I represent the way I do. But it all boils down to loving my own people, not hating anyone else unless they give me a reason to. I can sit down and pray with any man or woman, so that should say something too.
We'll talk more in the future. I'm still in that jailhouse mentality, adjusting to giving a damn about people and things, because I was facing down 5 years TDC just a minute back. But as far as I'm concerned we're good. You approached me about what could have been an issue in a respectful manner. So therefore I return the respect.
Reply
:iconmelalina:
Melalina Featured By Owner Aug 29, 2012  Professional General Artist
Not what I expected, but just what I'd hoped. I was afraid that some of the terminologies you use in your writings had some hidden meanings that I was not able to understand. Being such a pedestrian woman, I was having a hard time imagining how a beautiful mind such yours could also harbor mindless hate. Thank you.
Reply
:iconlcipher42:
lcipher42 Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2012  Professional General Artist
Nah, I'm anything but mindless. I think too damn much, and I've walked too many miles in my own shoes to not understand that another person's might not be all that damn pleasant. We'll talk more about what things mean and all that in the future. Beautiful mind? Sweetheart, there might be a lot above my neck, but ain't none of it beautiful...
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:iconmelalina:
Melalina Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2012  Professional General Artist
I've read some of your work and I must say that you are one of the most enigmatic individuals I've ever "encountered". I will read more later; it's so deep, I can't take it all in at once. If you don't mind, I've featured you on my journal along with my other favorites.
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