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glasses of wine like deep red lamps keeping the cold out in the cold

Western treetops suck all the light out of the air. I just want to drink another bottle of wine and find a soft patch of ground on which to curl my body. I tilt my head and pound the last grains of sound out of my ears. Because the sunset is my favorite silent film. The western sky is not yet finished dying. And the ghosts are already climbing into the torn drive-in movie screens of an America most of you probably don't remember. I am drunk with the sound of gravel. Drunk with the view of county fair ferris wheels spinning in last rays of the dead western light. Drunk with the sound of suburban sprinklers, facedown in the wet grass. And drunk with church bells tolling great big booms of loneliness, the stars fragments of old broken skies swept out of the past.

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