if you would aftercare your way into the heart of a child
you would be holding an adult who might (childlike)
love you for eternity.
and if you spoonfed selves of yours to looking up in light
to light to mimic what light does you would long have been
blessing probability no matter how pinched the small end of the curve.
the wool of evening answers lawn mist and some shoulders have so little
left to carry after hours. many champions seem hollow now that quiet
comes to be presented as simplicity and things to be forgotten are let go.
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