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in March and all year long the flowers are throwing rocks again, as the robin watches drinking a beer; and the mountains shine purple. not much is working in the room next to mine. everyone is looking for a way out. no matter what they have, or don't have it never works. through the window the petals fly - and scatter - into the black street where a cat licks them up. my father can only punch the walls now. the robin is watching with great interest as one flower opens in the rain, and the other closes its' pedals, wondering what went wrong.
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