A thunderbolt lightning gathers its pitchfork portrayal- that crash, this kiss… the cradled kismet, and all awhile eager eyes endlessly abound within the realms of a desirously dilapidated favourite room studio. The gender-fluid emotions are swimming ever so goosey again. Cutting sharp and heartfelt against the welterweight surface of a most buoyant frame named: The world over their conscientiously constructed shoulders. All of these rubberband-it aficionados and their favourite-best fifty-meter sprint towards the promised lands of both separation, sweet segregation: Given an Olympic-sized medal for their bare-naked bravery alone.

Isolated by the sweetest div-ide known and about to hold their erstwhile breaths for hostage and go: The generous distance together again- to get her back for themselves

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