I do not know how much I longed to be able to open your fucking chest, taking in his hands that beat, count the number of pleats. Also yesterday my eyes and my soul, illusion, have turned, you were looking for. The plot is thick, does not come off to me, I tried to cut each tentacle, but I have done no more than detaching from the world and my cord tie with makeshift equipment, ah bitter hope, to you.
Narciso le Monde
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