here's news you can't use, no bright ideas, no inspiration,or
Step, breath, mind, throws me overheadThe sky reflects me older,
we saw lights move quick through the night sky; no
It's by design: the constructs stand, the heads will ring,
The veil, perpetual; the clouds on the slopesDespite this impairment,
walking backwards into here, struck a nervestalled motor standing still,
Like a twizzler, a wet twizzler, between pillows, two down
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