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Our scripture is poor and our prayers untitled. The lies are loosed onto the truth like a dogfight and we wait it out, brushing the flies from our eyes, crushing beer cans against the heels of our boots. We wait it out to see which one will be opened at the neck, spill blood. This is the heirloom I'm sure to pass down and I will kiss each one of you when I do, make promises and propositions, give you all the same music.