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Artists In Hell Alan May

We walk quietly past the cobra asleep on the harpsichord. In the kitchen the robe of the nude falls from her lovely shoulders, and her hair she draws tightly in a bun. The morning sun bleeds a horrendous red. The wolf shreds the lamb with a mechanism for shredding lambs. The absinthe flows abundantly. They’ve taken away our paints. So what of the dark blows of sleep?