what world for you endured in outskirts of convention? far from home and the comfort of that old front door, fleshed from the threshold in mind, reduced to fading contemplative notions in wistful times and reminders of never going back. the climb was longing, the tears revealing, smiles unnerving and the cost all blood, but the crest is high and the wave is riding while the view stays foreign, wild, and the whiskey burning irish. the good ones close now, the mad ones madder, the penance softer by soliloquy, and still, the sun sets in esoteric evenings, red and orange equal on the ground.
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