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weeping women over afternoon dinners crying into the wine. weeping women in motorcars complaining weeping women over telephones. weeping women
crying from the treetops. weeping women rattling men’s balls inside of paper bags. weeping women leaping 30 feet into the air. demanding love, more and more love. i’d gladly give them more love if they weren’t such sucklings. if they’d only let it lay awhile. you can love love to death until there’s nothing left
but a wristbone. then you can start on another body.
