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We held our legs parallel to the ground - urethane cartographers of this small mid-atlantic town.
You were stuck in the mid-west making signs for opposing teams. Do our lives now live up to all our dreams?
Do we write it in our skin, indelible? "SK8 or Die,"
"Fuk'n Go," "Don't Give Up Hope," I guess I don't know. Or maybe we'll assert in binary. Dear diary, I wonder if words can make things real. I hope they might.
