I believe with all of the antipathy you shed on me that I will outlive an opposing infantry without the thought of branch officious notes miscast into long lines of twelve insistent on selfocracy.
It is my swear word of the month to torch definity unless you let go kite string after nominative bunching. Then and only now will I arrest the permanent record of antiquity to have propeled the existential into stealth care.
Promise me you'll never shelve these warm and gestured sonnet leaves. They strip their veins of dust when I'm afraid to watch them bear up under shadow lint.
Confrontive silhouettes reveal forfeited light. The word "if" might have been a mantra if the styles did more than show themselves to night. The wear and tear of opulence removes our sleep, as one does not resist comparing grace notes to their singular divided light.