18th February, 2012 

I am the remminance of the masticated apple core. The sky laughed, the clouds shifted and eventually vaporised. I could feel the air would be the death of me. Shriveled, enlisted by the suns rays, like the French Foreign Legion are imparted to adapt, conflicted or not. A wash out. I will whither and wilt, serve until decay provides a day with no more. Devoured by a life, and now nostalgia consumes, memories -a rose tint. without limbs or eyes or soul to speak of, yet Hollow, bruised a strangeness swept across my decomposing flesh. Contour. Stagnant in the sun for days upon days, discarded. Where is my apple, where is my core?

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