No way to explain the facile, indefensible thirst that saps dry any discovered reservoir for fear its contents flows elsewhere. You'd be frightened to learn that the stricter a dreaded outcome of a given body, as in beetles to leaves of a crabapple the more the bugs abound— and their scouring. Odd that I should so perpetually love a woman, that I can't eat for the literal physical pain of her absence, and I withhold the name of her whom I love now, worried that she, lovely, distinctive, light heart is another strand of twine, binds me to my own burning effigy, ghost of habit and fear.
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