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you are now entering the citadel of trash. you are leaving the protectorate. welcome to the charonic maelstrom of noise. by the way side but in your head. yours truly, guide person number 16
live.
stumbled back across the line.
ran out of rations. turned to dark magic. gas lamps and enchantments.
slowed time amongst the land mines.
yours truly,
guide person number 16
home ground.
never away.
just off with the trash, picked apart from the gulls.
step by step.
guard to the border with nothing beyond.
step up, step down.
west of the wayside.
down in a slumber, chief in charge.
artillery.
slipped in the trash.
repeated a manouvre from the last year.
apologies to the chancellors.
but the floodlights kept em out.
every thing remote.
remotely trash.
nothing clean, there's sand where i sleep.
barbed wire keeps them in.
a magic square.
how enchanting. how entrancing.
you can find me locked on the border.
camp day: lost
supplies: high
morale: ?
citadel lives on.
club of its own. loud sounds eternal.
[remote] [again]
finding space.
running.
[remote]
found reception, back and forward. in two steps.
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67227_7377377 for updates
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@67227_7377377
@jcflee
@buddahboss
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