It's gonna happen, that point where 'it' really does not matter one little bit of shit what happens.
Reputation, curse, culling, disease, recompense. What mean those words to you?
Outcast rejected foray into dwelling pools of the unfortunate. How now, toss it loose.
Words? They be power to the mighty? Djinn talking following slips into that space between sinew and bone, mincing sound like grapes in troughs.
I be mad, an offended cries slyly. I be wild slings a fallow fig. I be depressed??? Ha, only on the outside, showing what is shown to be expected for the collected piles of data in my outer cloak.
Send it on, that low buzz vibe of collected sorrows, fill it up in running heaps at the borders. I bring it, I see it, I unbuzz it til it looks again in unglassed eyes.
Spell craze dazzles, breaking banks of stored malice - cleanly cleaning over eons through momentary unfazed thought sparks. Insane amongst the sane self-pronounced by arbitrary agreement of colliding number tracks. I see the glory time point of second splitted understanding.
My aim being untrue, I slide across a home plate into brazen undreamed dreaming.
SCore!!
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