She wants to speak, but I feel what she is. She finds death love even if everything without love, is an offence to her.

She wants to speak, but I feel what she is. She finds death love even if

everything without love, is an offence to her. She doesn’t know why she doesn’t keep quiet given her love renders her innocent. Owner of the twilight, she plays the mirrors of pronouns.

Every word I write restores me to the absence of why I write what I

wouldn’t write if I allowed you to come here.

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