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River Print E-mail
Written by Heather   
Thursday, 25 October 2007
Floating on a river gently flowing pulling you deep in to the lad of unknown fanatic's. Aland where nothing is what it seems. The smell of sun kissed tulips. The warmth of a moist September morning. All is just imagination. In life the sun kissed flowers become smoldering piles f burning rubber. The mornings in September is the acid ears of fallen angels. The river is the raging crowds of history forever condemned to the was of society.
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