Somedays I miss the vulgar kicking and screaming that rocks my head and scissors my eyes. When you sick taint green and black onto every touch; bruised blue footsteps on the ground where you step and the avoid is very strong. The hyperbole-perfume saturates the wrapper world and slick trips all trips, those outer-going ventures to sniff the earth's body book. There are melodramaed lives. Feel brink. Topsevey sorts of states that pull-push plummet downward forever until down is topsy, up Sunny Sunny Sunny! There is something cold about a subtle still. Stilling in a turn book. All the pages turn, I stay, sit-stilling right in the middle; page warped around with no pull. Stick pinned to a projector screen with the all up bottom film reeling right over me. Tar stuck.
I am brown in the vivacious only spectrum party. Molasses moper corner stuck. No rainbow disco spotting me.
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