In a sea of desks, there’s talk of bags and games and long pipes that leak dreams with the strike of a match. And there’s a loudness to the whispers I hear. Whispers shouldn’t be that loud, should they? There’s a girl over there who everyone knows and men without ears who will stand by the door for a price. In long hallways, there are angry mobs of dwarves and rats and one single angel.

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    I really want to meet the person behind this poem!
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