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Sunday 17th July 2011.

The clock ticks,the hours march on,the blank white screen mocks in distanced fog " oh you again " can i reach out and touch perhaps not.
I am the captain of my ship i hear the echo in the distant surf, tack and tack again is that paradise behind the rocks guarding the white sandy beach.
Can it even be reached by such as me us you i......or am i still a drone of society, a punch bag,a snotty dog not quite worth a bone tossed from some passing slave ship..i tack again, the clouds in the sky heavy with rain blue thunder rocks, trivia plays tricks amongst the taut sails,i see faces, i recall from long ago cabins, shaded in big broad leaves sky scrapers hiding Dan Dare space ships hover, the gold rush rusts in old worn out buckets " i was lying in a burnt out basement "...arrhh youth haunts as the the arrow splits the tree.
As i dream was it miss-spent in the nightmare of self touch can the palm really grow hairs and If and i say If i talk to myself am i mad............
Perhaps so....     

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bichoose
bichoose

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