ever much so ending but not lacking in the process a temptress unbecoming, unbeknownst, save for this locket. it can tell you what the sky looks like on Saturday, assuming... assuming that the shell the ocean speaks through knows the moon.
and,
basically, it hurts when I know that you're not bleeding or writhing on the inside while the day writes on the ceiling. of hope, of energy, of things not to be wasted, or thrown down in the shadows and despair of isolation, timidity, the fraction, a faction of the limited inheritence unwelcome, spent, shooting blast up like a widow should. the point drops off the subject and another sows complacence, but the frame so wide I have you in leaves my mind wrecked, with no relief adjacent.
Devious Comments
--
brace yourself.
coercing brutal honesty is often not pretty.
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