keep your / hand on the rail / if / all / else fails
<< Wednesday, Feb. 16, 2005 - 2:34 pm >> we were never so sure anyways. spit tasted bitter on certain tuesdays, the ground under the house we slept in was warmer than our own skins. so you had a jerk of a father, i had a runaway mother. we ran out of things to write about when we stopped believing in things like ghosts pretending we weren't so homeless anymore. i saw the letters spill out of the mailbox, those letters you wrote driving in blue and red trucks away from the town that had brought you up ..
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