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Dark My breath hardly makes a mark across the frosted day and light disappeared into a tiny box quite some time ago. Ah, the empty holds only silence in its tender folds in which I twirl, suspended in the moot splendor of dark-shine -- an icicle or a piece of paper waiting for the match to scratch or a big hungry rat. Either way it doesn't matter, for the ravens have flown from his hands. All night they covered my dreams with their vacuous wings.