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the curse for pamela wallen

That looks like my Mother’s dog. Is it? Is that lady not the stranger I think she is, but somebody I know, whom I think is my Mother?
There is no telling what is left, just the dank stink of stranger days. A fear and feast of rather kind dragons, measured by the level headed stranger that watches me fall. These people are kind and noble, that can be written for certain. They want us to do the best, even if it destroys our lives – makes us their sheep. They are fearful vampires, and I do my best to be free from their grasp. Only the leaders know where I am, but they cannot get through the labyrinth.

Repetition is worthwhile. Only those marked by the skin of the beast must be written on the stone outside my cathedral. One of these sheep mindfully walks, dear to the heart of the woman who may or may not be my mother. The dog is there, I know that for sure, but the person is a far different creature than I have ever seen before, weighed down with heavy thought and the urge to complete a festival made out of glass. The place is not visible, but I think I see where she finally broke and rolled back to the ocean.

Finally, I cannot be certain that the woman is not the dog. A rope attaches them, so I fearfully cut it. These shining sums weigh on her concourses, the curves and highways that Tom Cochrane wrote of. The appeal is beginning to fade, because the hope of the tinderbox finally igniting is far too appealing for the separated faiths. We all want to be these people, but when we watch the gifts they are given we cannot do anything but cry out for equality. I suppose eventually something important will occur and the people will simply be fed up. Then, of course, they will stop voting. That really is our plan all along.

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