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Allen Clarke Allen Clarke
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A distant fire-light licked at the engulfing shadows.At the foot of the mountain,the brooks gurgled cacaphony of watery swirl and rustle of meadows deep.Even the lush grass seemed to lie down to rest for the night.And I awake in the laundromat,a`lull with the swish of rushing water and clicking machines.Voices, music and whatever come crashing through that box where people live and breathe rythymically to the ethereal tune of Marching Time.It is near Hallow`s Eve.I look at pumpkin stare with it`s pyramidic orbs burning deep into my ragged psyche. Why must I feel unnerved?It`s only a damned vegetable, after all!The whir of my machine tells me that it is rinse time.The cycle is winding down.I near the end of this - my weekly chore.Thus, I take my leave with my pen and notebook by my side.The Muse leaves with me whenever it is pleased to show up.For, you see, once the words are gone out of memory they may never return.But I know I will be back here again next week to rid myself of some more grime.It is therapy.I must rush home now. I have many paper dolls to cut out. Goodbye.


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