Uncollected Soulby Robert Eshasurrounded in a blanket of black roses. Face as pale as the sky shining with dimness at the crack of dawn. "Wake up you son-of-a-bitch, you're not dead. Or, could it be that I am? Could that be the reason why I'm lying in the essence of death resting deep in my quiescence rigid with no movement whatsoever? Could that be the reason why these people are grieving, grieving with manifestation? "Hey---Hey you with the flowers!" What is this? Is this my funeral? If it is, then who am I? What am I? Why am I here? "Hey! I'm talkin to you" |
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