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SILENCE... Quinton Margolis sits alone head down, knees up in his tattered dingy arm-chair cold hardwood floor wintertime, trees bare spinning crackly Ledbetter platters Huddie with his stove pipe arms sings vibrantly in cotton field lorn the door creaks the sound of two feet quietly entering the room unnoticed Quinton lost in thought tapping his knee to the rhythms of his tangled misty mind oblivious to the needle skipping or the two feet approaching faceless feet, eyes meet |
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