The room held its own kind of maniacal franchise – namely unofficial sweetly pepperings of alarmed chaos. Upside-over and decidedly underbeneath the informal form of the female non-conformist. She seems to have witnessed many a momentous event throughout a pragmatically illogical lifestyle. That salt ‘n’ pepper-haired, typewritten wannabe – electric by preferential nature and oh so very intricately prepared to write all of the keynote words near the absailing skyline. Her rapid-fire eyes have been left missing-in-action, having taken themselves generously away till placed back upon beneficially significant leave, to a typically jarring place wherein they shall need to steadfastly bear the challenge of unnerving levels of whipping noise, please: for the constant de-cluttering of both disobedient and under-entitled words cannot ever hold their tremendously whipsmart tongues for long enough. And finally… then, and only there, does all of the methodically disorganised activity start to manage to make cordial sense again. Ever since the very same reason that she gave the alcohol addiction the coldest shoulder going: now orderly standing, in line – one aside no other – as plain, sober, blurred words given over to significant proprietorship via the same exceptional stilted fingers which break with concentrated state of stare…
To inevitably feed her. Meandering facial expressions which stream like a river which holds a thousand swollen compositional waterfalls
Mesmerised dutifully within and about to reach the bubbling, coarsing surface once more
Utterly electrified by the-light-of-night
And favourably failing to abstain anymore from her whole wide-eyed world again.

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