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Night writer.

Losing illusions.  I can’t tell if they stick to my psyche like glue or if I’m hugging the damn things so tight they’re nearly suffocating and can’t wait to be lost. Those little pieces of half baked knowledge splayed out in an imaginary roll of overexposed film strewn in front of my eyes, so lifelike they seem real. They conjure up all that I think I need and don’t need, and all that I feel I want and don’t want... Some of the illusions, I feel so deeply about, clarity of thought is an actual afterthought. A jovial spectator from above, some cowboy boot with spurs wearing old dude, white mustache, white beard, mustache a little longer than the beard, and blue eyes—“Hey down there,” he lifts the brim of his black hat to reveal dark bushy eyebrows and it’s definitely a good look on him, a sprig of tall grass or whatever that is old cowboys pinch in their teeth while they’re talking to, well, me, “you seem to've dug yer heels in chin deep this time little darlin.”   They

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