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Djeran

When the ants become active.

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Rising Dawn and Fleeing Passions

I pick my way through clothes, scattered across the floor. Yanked from our bodies in urgent, heated tugs, they lie jumbled, tumbled, A confusion of his and hers and yours and mine and who’s sock is this, I can’t quite see? Fumbling, stumbling, clutching, gathering armfuls as I go,

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