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50 Waiting Hours fall backward. This earth is but a dot in another world’s sky. She must un-become. Unhook herself from herself. Waiting for a wave. It isn’t the guillotine’s blade that kills, the executioner’s hand unties the rope. Her faith is butter melting on hot sand, waiting for a wave. When love comes, words fail. She seeks the one without words. She waits for a wave. ...

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