recovering you is a traumatic fragrance. there in the thistles. stagnant diatribe. is it strange that I feel the structure twirl around me like a pinwheel? going somewhere. in relation to a fixed point, you are upside down. your scrawl should reveal your yearning, prescriptive. we settle on the topiary, its drastic bellows of foliage, it's scrawny limbs atwine. standing water. going somewhere? dangerous insects, skating on your flesh. this move, through stapled territory, is your design, is your lesion.
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