I. Like a fading lifeline. I trail off. A fire tinged bullet hole in my heart. Breathing carcass of a primitive affair.
You. A homicidal compulsion.
I. A hostage of passion.
Finally a post. But, i feel cheated, young scribe. You must push forth through the painful cerebral contractions of your self-inflicted inertia, more juice and verbal progeny. Your cranial loins await the birth. And, so do we.So do we.
Finally a post. But, i feel cheated, young scribe. You must push forth through the painful cerebral contractions of your self-inflicted inertia, more juice and verbal progeny. Your cranial loins await the birth. And, so do we.So do we.
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