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2003-05-02 - 1:21 p.m.

The lamp underscores his life, and you take the blue pill and the red pill together as you sit in the dull white plaster of the sink of cornoucopia. Planted in the shiny red dune buggy as the wheels blast off into the black of space with the silver earth beneath you and in front of you. Take the goose by the tail and wring the leather from her hyde. The images of your vertigo hang in the museum of splinters while your forethoughts ride the landscape with the heart of gold that never was too thankful to feel ill-moded. Where love was the sand of the unholy, the planks run wide and the center of the world rushes you and injures your pride, believing that it was at your behest that the brutish tide, so incipient, so insulting, frowned on the green savages of yesteryear. Churning the flowers, you seep into the glut of monotony and Kevin Spacey eats your spleen with honeydew while dusting your eyes from the froth of flippant words and bastard poets. Not for the owls nor the birds will the witch bemoan your ignoble sagacity, and never again will the ancient whale cross your throne, but at the risk of losing life, limb and your library, the gnome of Esther rushes for the pearl of annihilation. Guidelines and dollars line the facile terrace of the firing squad that would be your maker. The back-alley verbal violence grows resplendent whilst glimpsing and teasing the open envelope that reads like a book that never was. Read again and hit the breaks on your cigarette as the flashbulb of scions lights your broken path. I whispered spring to you and you echoed dance. Oh what fickle season we reap in harvest as the ballast of windows and grandiose pawn-shops overwhelm us with their warmth and lust. That eccentric elsewhere you sought lay ahead but foreign words and mirrored fancies shuffled and homogenized you, masticated and dastardized you and spit you out whole. With the fear and the ragged chapters of your hyde, your eyes grew dim and light again. You lit your way and paved your cobblestone path with patches of rose-colored daffodils on the side. But when you arrived, you found the turban man with your stereo and his necktie playing your game and living your life. He died the happy death that had been waiting behind door number two. You lived the life of the blue pill that lay waiting behind the door of the rue.

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"When you are not herded by the routine interruption of living a scheduled life, you are always where you are supposed to be and the time is always now. Consumed in time segments, the individual forgets to live in between �places to be,� loses the magic of the mundane, the beauty in the ordinary and the infinite moments of happiness that can be realized every day."

--Liya Schwartzman

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