if we can't make this quick, could we at least make it count? needle-threaded maelstrom, and the hills around are so black, so neutered by the toenails perched in their grasping. jagged insect reactions of strategic chord progressions. itinerant in just the right corners between my shoulder blades and my center of fucking gravity. dirt holds different meanings, depending upon the angle of one's spittle drip.
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