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     Well, there's Baba. He's always just a-sitting outside the beautiful golden gates of his beautiful golden temple, watching, meditating, maybe waiting for nothing he knows, contemplating, as the sun shines and the moon waxes bright. Baba he wears only a sparkling black sadcloth, and has the cleanest composition of a body one could know. He is impeccably tan and skinny bones one could know, with bluest eyes like the perfect sky that blur everything else to those zombie passerby.


     Well, the world is absolute decay. The world apart from his temple is gray, and it is devoid of the grace that prevails in his brain. The world is dying, but he sees beauty and seeks the article of ash which seems to be the only real thing that lasts as foundation for the aftermath of humanity. He ponders ash. He puffs in favor of the formidable death. The death which is attesting even in life. Is death still a living dream? his mind alway spits. So it seems to be. 

     KAYLAH Sarai lngers in her lovely garden, full of fine foliage, and prophesies and prays. She strolls all day, embracing the creek of her own dear moulded boulders of destiny's stormy wake. She is neighbor to a living lake, and in a handful of water which makes a facial baptism she seeks the reflection of narrow need toward the idealistic circumstance. She thinks she already has the glimmering geysers that all her cells do shoot, but why is there this thing amiss. O this thing that makes to weep seeps too through every war within and causes great storm upon every shore. Forsook.



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