Your own sympathy is a possession, as if we don't look out for better or worse. How we don't change what gave us an obsession. Book our stories the way we curse strange detail into little parts. We're merely time just like how our hearts rhyme pain, immerse our imagination, sublime, our minds will never show when we're the same, you're my glass frame.
Tedious minds blindly make a time so shallow over gay, the competency of space that show many with grace, the interrogation of every time hence the repugnant, known of change seem to glee the majesty of gesture, languid but a depraved audacity speaks of renaissance, plies the suggestion of every regulation that makes life of class, sybarite the decision of every way of being. Inclusivity is a mere hence of decision, more thy doubt of a lost or will, a person will drought more, thy people listen the way we think, why we listen, why we sing.
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