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Post by Don Schaeffer on Jul 6, 2007 0:48:48 GMT -5
I sleep through chicken soup with noodles entangling my legs, odd pieces of vegetable and meat. This is not an empty night.
But I am also missing, time rushed by without a signal. The missing part of the night is deeper, more like the truth.
Until I open my eyes, I am alone here down in my void, with pockets of chicken soup.
I can live by myself during the times I count as living, when I am saturated with yolk.
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Post by Bernard Alain on Jul 6, 2007 22:14:44 GMT -5
you have a rare poetic voice Don, one for which I find has great appeal. The introspective tone immerses the reader and unravels with such clarity and simple wisdom. This is one of my favorites. The protein of one's existentence woven with wholesome textures, taste and basic living. I very much enjoyed this.
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Post by Don Schaeffer on Jul 6, 2007 23:54:14 GMT -5
Thanks. I always thought of this one as a nutty sidebar. I'm glad someone likes it.
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