She clings there, swaying, smelling slightly of an aftertaste, keening in a voice that clears your sinuses. She is old now, looks disfigured and triumphant - like most old things she is probably at least a little insane. In the folds of her clothing I caress a few friends, smuggled past her dimly vicious vision. She is inside a part of me that mourns some death or other - she is the silence that makes me an island; her motion laps shores that appear wooded only from a distance, that slope to a slow, swollen peak.
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