The smell of his father's skin was still in her hands.
The coldness of him in her skin, the muds of his graveyard on her shoes, looking at what was left from him, a piece of soil, she was crying, she was cursing, she was shaking.
He was burried without her.
He was burried deep in her skin...
On such a sunny winter day in the world of ugliness.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
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