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Where The Wild Things Are
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The Night Kitchen
Bands are always men at night, as my mother cooks for them in her kitchen. They write their songs on scraps of paper and fag packets. Mum cooks for these men, but not all of them eat. The bands play into the night, while in the graveyard next door, yew trees suck at the blood and the bones of the dead. My ears ring and the glass panes in our windows shake. And like mickie in the night kitchen, i run across the landing and i down into the hall. Quiet down there.
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