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The first word is paper, or trash, the smell of fat mixed in filth finding sacred day on River Ohio; we work hard to mutter the feeling of hello, being close in proximity but far from understanding. Almost fifty she is all grown up, her acrobatic skills test the perception of the moron killing everything from east to west, while it is the social intellectual pining an elope to shanty town, who, one day, achieves a holy trepidation that grasps tightly onto the desired influence and devoted accountability necessary for constructing a heartwarming plan intent with the premonition of sinking my secluded empire. We speak to produce an inner space; occupying the risk, answering the instant, pampering the shell, and legitimizing boundary to calculate our inverted lunacy, when, swimming in neglect comforts this incorrect nemesis it molds the ancient silhouette into a shared punishment going down the empty street to reach the end of gravel and dirt, merging the result with no protection, and, in the end, finds the water unpredictable. The brutal maker of law gets tired of his responsibility and in due time pinnacles to meet a multitude of future enemies: a common suffering, a private devastation, a repeating system. We must suggest a departure if we are to create any kind of sophisticated overhaul. This fascinating observation collaborates my frozen opinion proven famous for its circular detail. Does the name William Henry James mean anything to you? It’s a code sixty on register one. The water is cold, taking it’s time to warm; I can be the water, except for the warmth. Break the heart of own, miss the time thats never, hurt the help of the good word, sit long enough like that and your legs will go to sleep. It’s the story of life in reverse, running from place to place like a housekeepers vacuum; it will pick up the dirt, but, there must be a little filth left behind for me to carry across the ocean. Like the job of a worn out mother chasing her daughter down the multicolored road of, “ We wouldn’t have done anything like that in my day!” The drizzle falls without ownership, wetting the street to moisten the air, I’m doomsday idiot who plays the instrument in profound alteration, spending the day tightening screws, I make a direct path into the haunted convictions of my self doubt, stepping out for a while, only to return in disgust. It’s official, I’ve decided a last minute engagement should be canceled. This is the garnish for your hostility, the foundation of your mutiny, the decoration of your birth. A tradition of intimidation produces low stimuli, while the infamous scholars get together for their predetermined head scratching session; adding more of the same old lies to go further and further away from anything that might resemble truth. I’m thrill seeking steady heart holding years of abuse, I wait patiently in the evening for the exhausting succubi to complete their destruction, I’m willing participant situated in an apparent stymie, thinking, I can envelop the plastic slowly, selling magic to the holy, selling preacher to the victim. It is my incomprehensible purpose and invisible image that is surrounded by the overcompensated frowns of these blood sucking dullards, who, work overtime to deepen my anguish while existing within several depressing patterns that hope to one day sniff out a permanent corner of my subconscious. In daily practice, my violent emotions vicious decay is excitement penetrating an exclusive experience to render the vulgar law a contradiction. It’s like two cunts fighting over one dog, like the sickly plant in your apartment held up with a rusty wire. Maybe the dog, or the plant, can speak for me? Maybe the rusty wire, or, the two cunts can better express this constant alienation