Who, or why, or which, or what, I was much distressed by the sublime.
Is it true that life is not a singular imagination? How can we imagine a utopia and then we can’t barely speak about it?
I know this might seem cruel to express
Petrified tongue behold on the abstract
The irony of a cosmic energy
I take an odd delight to see wrinkles on the corner of your eye. It is a reluctant credence of constellation ever since one beamed out the thimblesworth of that one terror night of full moon.
To the sky I explode merged with the galaxy of freckles in my face.
I vanished.
I hope this would not change anything but I know this is the cruellest thing I could ever express.
Sincerely strange,
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