You found each other with hope and next day moved as if your joints were poor. But if you don’t find each other again and again, after and before sex, who can you ask? Do you touch hands? Song with a warbling vocal happens to be what’s on. You just tolerate it. Just tolerate the horrible beginning that kept furniture between you, every material too pulpy to hold, to pick someone up with or without help. Just tolerate pink drinks with sushi. Arrange a drop. Your mission or nothing; or nothing. Your documentation. Brightness around your darkness was the front of the next day, flashing to warn you. Maybe you saw yourselves gnawing the last peaceful plains, tallgrass prairie and electric sky. Munching change into the times you no longer have to go about undercover, helpless inside a cow-shaped blind. Find yourself getting closer, the milk sour, each other in the blink of a lashed eye as the world turns slowly at your side.
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