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I’ve strung these webs over a thousand times

running back and forth, round and round.

But the wind, the rain, the hands of children

tear them down – swindling, dwindling.

Autumn gossamer threads

forming in the mind

cobwebs in corners

but no spider can be found.

I just wanted the world to see,

this twine of me.

It’s times like this that I wonder why

my art is made only to die.

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Giovanni groggily sat up in his wheelchair. He had fallen asleep again. He gripped the inner wheel as he pushed himself along the sterile hallways. The hallways were so familiar they appeared even in


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