in deep: every day parting these clouds with cracked fingers
I come upon mind giving muscles a comb-over.
We don't speak, anymore. And my yellow fat, what's still
strung of that, is waved by an uncertain wind.
in deep: every day parting these clouds with cracked fingers
I come upon mind giving muscles a comb-over.
We don't speak, anymore. And my yellow fat, what's still
strung of that, is waved by an uncertain wind.
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