“Why do you wish for hate and hell? How could you? How could you trance of sepulchers and catacombs? May I ask you, have you sat and searched the sky?”

Four strings and unfretted fingerboard. Four stallions racing, a colliding.
Push me, then follow, so push me, then follow. Some thing is clawing,
plowing deep, furrowing in and flexing with every slap I give to it.

“This coffee date was a wish come fruition. I love the way your hair is like a madman.
I wonder, have you ever tried that little place down the way? Let me show
you. Let me give you my arm and back.”

Stepping is unlike anything I have ever, ever-ed. These sockets burn
with chorus retreat. These pockets are forcing weapons into hands that
no longer have the recollection to receive them.

“May I ask you, do you think the daylight has a memory? Is this day being recorded,
as a papyrus, as a Nostradamus future coming, do you think?”

What have you done to me? I am here sitting and searching into the sky.
I’m forgetting all about wickedness.

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