The Years are Days and the Days are BeastsRay Succre
Each stalls at midpoint with a sun drome, beetle-wrought, the day. I had a rumble likely first, yet was small in form. How the ripple overlaps tooth, dog tongue in, out, the day is a panting; I'll dry in echo-cease likely last, by some manner shrill. Do my creeps administer the dropped minutes in bare glancing, do my heart-gooder notions entice more feel of what fleets so readily past? To each kind, the in, out, likely the day; I am of a kind. It's first rolls and cumbersome earth beneath, then streaks and vent-priss sky across, and between, stall at midpoint. I wear a fretter's wonder, even now panting, wrought, and likely.
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