Wrizzit
For everything, down to the scribbles.
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I’m telling the doctor, the urge to stab myself in the neck is not an urge to die. Scores of pigeons scatter into a mass of grey cloud over Trafalgar Square. Standing in front of the Seagram Murals, you wipe a tear from my eye. White roses collect on a coffin, petals beneath scattered earth. I smell your scent on a stranger who walks by.
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