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....finicky little devils those seagulls... always
begging for more... listless on the levees and strong in
their grip... but what is to become of the lights and
the music when they are all gone... tucked nicely
behind a damp cloth of bits and pieces... did i mention
the longing... long before there was the autumn song
taut across the rising stream... relentless tugging of
the cloth and the sorted cries echoing beneath the
frigid cold... tremble, reckless... for the gulls have
you out numbered... so much for the abbey it crumbles
every night. moonlight.


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