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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
to be continued

Submitted: April 26, 2013

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Submitted: April 26, 2013

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it is wood, wood, literal wood. 

sometimes I am the body scalene.

I can sense the evil in the world, laying

What?

You've only been here soon five minutes.

Fluffy snow and secular landmarks

they all glare from above, hair standing out in the sand.

Let them know how they can only fall

It's awfully grainy this time of winter. 

experience is odd and palatable.

left alone ape mouth forced to dig

never falling to a crown in the end

scary presences made of  vines, they're real in your simple head, head.

it quietly takes note

prefrontal set lobe.

experience is a being which sets fire.

windigo the journalis wind 

whispers in the ear back and turn around again automatic.

tragic, true, but only if you set a flame on its head, it will do the same to you.

whirr.

 

Why does real only coalesce half with time?

Air glimmers audio, to change into sight and light.

No it's not.

Something is always there...dormant.

Angles I guess, but always on the same road.

 

 

 

sake will keep you from wake.

in some cases.

it depends on the scale.

Do not subject shame. 

Stop!

Sleep!

Scatter your invisible mediums like glitter! Like the glitter, glitter that you are...

Sometimes a bit of me likes the zone of terrfy. Spectacles, what?

Peek me. Fine?

Sleeepppp

No trust. But I need it just as I need the scary,

simpleton.

The line between good and great. Is a smile and a big mac on a drive.


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