When i mumble outside I have loose hands. Spreading sound cracks so they lust. May i explain a brain of mine. they made a grove, where friends sometimes talk me into an elsewhere forest so i may sit in the moon of their heads.

I am ashamed this stings me. she mouthed her misunderstanding of my symbol echoes year by year. The miss in clarity of conceptual pain implies a refusal, though the selfishness of that thought under my veil is welling up. removals from many more than yourself, pushing me into the orbit of a sunken alcove off avenue C. I am observational toward the scale of my spacetime where an urchin grows long as to entirely fix my isolation. Of i have done. Of no one will do. And this. And its face sits on the bottom coiling indistinct rumbling. I’ve laughed for always an opposite reason in situations of conjoined release. Maybe there was one else, no? Caught myself. And words as misdemeanors in everything I must leave missing. are you feeling any unease in the miscommunications? That you have secretly stopped thinking in words more than imagistic feelings? Relative to location? Don’t say that on your eyes please, don't you know I must create pieces before I speak. The sensation of only emotion bubble rattles me whilst you wish to hear something emerge. But I only feel.

In a sodium cation I've left some scripture during my singing. A collection of simmering description of garments that enter subliminal exits at request, sounds that have yet to touch an ear drum beside one's own, because the frequency has never been its most raw. Of static fields in a butterfly net. A breeze and breath while never making love. I do not decode for the prince in this town, although confirm there is something in the sensor breaking when I want.

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