There’s this intricacy which seeps and sells itself to the Dostoyevskian devil. Bedevilled and broken down and re repaired again, she is — hellish with hella HOT legs and we just might love to
Entice our own hopscotching and inescapable minds Til Sent Devoutly blind. It never really took us too long, actually, to decipher uniquely and quietly between: “being rather punch drunk and sober at the same sane time.” Why weren’t we inebriated in the middle of the twiddle our rum and coke thumbs night but because, “she really liked to grab the microphone and phone home with her abstract AND mind-filled ideas making good kinds of collapsing ANNNND colliding sense again.” The chasm of RealIty is HUGE and she REALLY will need to remain the Girl To Set FarreaaaaaaCcchinG fire to that flame.
“And, no, it ISN’T And Never really WAS On A Spectrum Of Any Kinds Of InsaNe.” Just plain old OCD, “Please.”
Even when, “we don’t wanna sound like these unofficially pure, raw, and pragmatic people… … … it’s BEEN hellishly ImPossibLe anyway.” Manifested from magical and meandering survival technique actually. And wrapped in some crazy kinds of CottonWoolCreation. “By fuck, though, his eyes NEVER died.”
