Pen grip. Pressure lines from stiff borders blending into consistent pre-defined hand motions. Indented and intent on what was tomorrow today (night, too.) I surprise with sunrise; golden, right? Plastic bottle weren’t but glass cannot be me. Record-playing Majesty who moves without suffering stiffless a touch of woman no way to resist. His beard designed by contours and substance. Ink stains now but never then unless they’re a future acquirement. I want to love him but wait, no one (come on!) exists. Rotate wooden blades searching for the sound my mind BETRAYS. How does one lose it? Surrender splendor a fucking Agnostic toasting to a Baptist minister!
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