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Sunday 11th February 2007.

Sunday is usually rest day for the regiment,of that i am glad,time to sit and ponder,to think of people i have met on the way into this valley.Is there a way out,can i escape the unfurling of the colours,am i a wimp keeping close to the familiar,what lies in the darkness beyond comfort,the front rank is so cozy,so warm it is if i really do not want to leave the closed ranks.
I have seen in the fog a uniform of desire the swirling mist breaks from time to time to glimpse more,but i am not sure if the image suits,or is it simply me forcing the issue..time is running out the day is sinking fast the slow weekend has slipped to manoeuvre once more into the bucket work heeps on my shoulders,the clock ticks,knowing no escape can be fathomed in this darkness,the thrashing of monkeys shrill on the wind,the hand that strikes the shaft is still, the gorged organ is resting.
The bitch steps into my mind i welcome leaving the door open,the obsession blankets my thoughts i can make it,i can strive to whither away from the colours,this parchment started in my own hand,though simply i have fallen foul to the lazy sod strapped in side my knapsack,why have i let this voice climb above the howling winter...the future is away from this valley the forlorn regiment is a ghost from time past,it is time to stretch the skin beyond the draw string, to tighten and grip until the purple bulges in pain..and is pain the joy sought.How the leaves blow under the spring leaf mold is perhaps one answer,to be found...

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bichoose

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