Scuttled rubbish and lightened ardent valse of Autumnal flux. Muscled runners flit by chests a’heaving sculptural as a kingdom of blood of future joy, of future love dense as close collapsing stars.
Scarred reason in the hope of minced noise meeting a new meaning. Flakes of the next season sitting in the sky, waiting for us in the whittled blood of time.
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Scarred reason in the hope of minced noise meeting a new meaning. Flakes of the next season sitting in the sky, waiting for us in the whittled blood of time.
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