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Sunday, 29 November 2009


The growls come, each more lengthy, needy than the next. But they're not as persuasive as they'd like. That feral begging falls on deaf ears as it fades away into the night. There's something oddly sympathetic about it, something pleading - a cry that arises the need or want to comfort. But it isn't enough. Again, the growls fail but still they come.

It's the emptiness that's sickening, rising and falling like a tide on a stormy night. But still, there's a will that beats against it, a will with no reason, no justification, not even a little bit of sense - but it's there and it's enough. It's a strange dilemma, a subtle sickness, far beyond any logical understanding.

Don't ask, it won't answer. It's not that easy, it's not as simple as a black and white photo of a lone, leaveless tree.

Some call it the sickness worth having.

It's not.

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