Vacations don't end, they get killed.
Executed sometime in the weekend night by the monotony of Monday's work said hour.
When They Don't Get It
Some sing. Some sculpt or paint. A poet weaves words to spear deep emotion or gust brushed away dust on duty in soul.
And with your blood we paint together a scrambling mess of pictures all over that white white wall...
And if not, maybe you still stop by at the bloody scene.
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