he mountains are cast away with the other turmoils that melted your snowmen during your relapses into retrospect where the cat of your crossings jumped through its curious hoops while the flummoxed chicken ran around a pumpkin patch until it found the dirt that no rug could conceal for the shootout on the street that subsequently became a war in a chaotic dust storm on the porch of reflection.
-Calvin W. Allison
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