Peace is a traitor. A comfortable fiend.
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Shy, quiet failure disguised as a virtue.
Dreams filled with poison that tastes of vanilla.
I am the model for normative philters:
the ideal amalgam of watered-down meaning.
Cool, clotted ash in a Bakelite bowl.
Aim the doomed at my image. I'll try to absorb them.
While wishing, again, for a cure for the cure.
I blog irregularly at TinkerX. I'm also on Twitter. @andyhavens, go figure.