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It's me.

a woman who wasn't born with enough middle fingers. So take me for a male, no more.

and here's my love, my justification of my own name. I shouldn't have post it, but the metaphor's blissful and Im wretchedly tattered by the moonless firmament last darkness.


Therefore I harbor the image of that man as if he is the seven-fold truth wherein I lived, am living, and shall live again.

a very distant world of sumptuous weather, golden denizens gliding and ceaselessly turning their bodies through a labyrinth of trees. When autumn descends, the trees shed down thousands foils of gold that the sun setting majestically down into ancient ruins is no match to its glamor. Bare branches with a drop of gods' elixir or two do hang tender their caress lavishly onto the sky; thin crackling trailing beneath the pace of a tiger sighs the languor of lovers.

this world worships silvery gray. As auspicious moon rises between the calm undulations of a sea of pensive forest, the night and its vagueness blur the landscape with most limpid fire. And rustling, the
creatures underneath make love to each other in your name.

such is the world i fold and unfold with care.

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