this explosion was herself without compromise. true. she had something new, forcing less and less, blowing the doors wide open... yet she was not fully aware of all butterflies, questions of belief and unbelief, very hot and red... she had no fixed definition for pain nor vertigo nor womb quakes... though she had it all. too much.
silence was easier to drink than rain. but desert grounded the deployment of oscillations. striving for the contrary sun. the inner beginning of heat waves against the rocks of nothing.
could the dynamic of the only language come to the surface? burning slowly and acutely
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