Stormy weather which waits on no one - not even you, my fair haired idyllic friend. I am dark and punishable, spattered in the mist of a thunderous afternoon - counting the drops beating down on a shanty roof in the nearest neighborhood. This is rain washed with blood; come from the Adriatic and the North sea. The history is in my bones, tainted with the memory of a million unearthed deaths - all come up in the water beads which beat against my skull.
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