Flashing their thoughts around like frilled skirt bone, swishing to and fro. Pondering the possibilitieas but never really gaining. Taking bites that only end up digested. You call that life?
But it's only now, having left that rotting grotto that the bird may fly. The friction imposed, gliding through the net. The holes no longer fine. Time, time. Been there a while. But now is new. Picture yourself.
Floorboards creaking. With whom are you speaking? Not I, luka. Emit, time. A foul and pleasant stream. Cardinal sin, shapes, showers and even if you could you would. Wooden't you? Speak for yourself.
WhT you have, which is quite rare, is a sensuous perception, the actual feel and glide of things, and you can do some things with sound that are promising but your taste is excreable, you're like a kind anti aesthete , unbelievable lapses of taste
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