THREE WITCHES…
…stand at the cross roads.
One holds a branch, the other a rose, the last a knife.
Our lips move from each to each.
It’s no wonder, the blood that comes when we finally speak.
When we finally say something, isn’t it always the least?
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CALL ME ISHMAEL You know why? Because I said so. If I live long enough to make it to an airport without losing any oxygen, if I use my mo...
