Destruction of the bower of blissKate Schapira
Infrequent, unfragrant sighs scathe and raze the fresh air, cozy up to the interfering bank. Cue the old-lady choir sisterhood of teamsters double-headed horses pulling the flesh self against itself where impatience breeds and lives —down it already!— like larva in a bucket of gentle confidence in the future. Fear strikes into my heart-case like a tall stair. That old bitter twist. Keep it. Keep it. Wheezing old-lady underside taking the green boughs down. The welcome mat.
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