Your hands pressed against the grubby tiles. Your arms outstretched.
Reflections of a inner glow.
Dirty little white boy
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Your hands pressed against the grubby tiles. Your arms outstretched.
Reflections of a inner glow.
Where we are going we need no roads. A series of thoughts and events tumble out from a mere thought to the written word.Writing and studio experiments by Gary Bolam. For more by Gary Bolam visit www.garybolam.co.uk
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