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The importance of angels.

There was a spotlight that suffocated us. I couldn't decide whether it deceived us. It was the eternal blizzard, non-accepting of Jesus. Like I was raised in this hermetic ritual of murders. Like a horrific nightmare of seizure, the indifference was solitude. A form of wishing I've never been. Was there a murder? Were we self-sacrificed? Is the idea to pretend we are born to deceive? I decided I was not to discuss this. I would see stars in the center of the black room. It was not to be reckoned with. I used to believe I was a fragment, a visitor, a lucky idiot.
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Author:Cory, Cynthia Jay
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:May 1, 1993
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