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Comments about Peter Cawford
Grain prints its touch as terror climbs my mind, grasping for my eyes. There is no horizon here.
Deafened by nature. Crafted in oak, a gallows scaled in iron. Thrust apon me numerals of end, six nine and thirteen a long held tradition. Tried true in all colors and creed.
Is this fear a faithless shadow, that now weighs me down? How does one not see an accent?
Limbs are heavy and sodden a Plato gives no relief to my limbs. Each movement is stifled governed by hesitance, tearing at the peace once thrived and revered. Ψ