Where have we simply been to, for these precious people appear to be uttermost ashamed by their preposterous and noteworthy description of their desperately underrepresented selves.
They dig for exactitude story line, and pour no less gloriously via blessedly unwished for slit wrists – we will hold them rather prioritised by the fire in our craved eyes, over bounce-able, shock-absorbing shoulders, and beg them to never disguise the pain rain down upon again.
Because they make more sense – even in darkened hours, if not to themselves – than their honest readers can ever tragedy to imagine. Who turn a spit-flicked page and feel only ever literary, breath of stressed air rage on their rhythmic storyteller’s art. We are, we are… walking toward the cloud-assembled middle. So, please, come on up for that one last gargantuan intake of a whole wide world’s fabricated and settled breath.
The threat was never even there, so you do know to so suddenly soon realise – and the opposing person’s reawakened giddy eyes shall mesmerisingly align for one first time.

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