Anxiety can be about missing the chalkmark of presumed perfection. She would fear the daylight would not shine enough. By knowing the Platonic place against the wall, she notarized mistakes as they occurred, and recognized the difference between bliss and threadbare faultlines. When we talked there was a row of patterns, each one themed around her disappointment. Once depth showed its insufficiency. Once inductive reasoning hosted a marginal distinction between summa cum and flowerbeds not full grown. There were so many things to talk about. I have a tendency to see neutrality as wealth. I look through rain and there is solace in the rubbed branch lines against a silken airlight. She was soft, her skin sweetened a place the fiddle would not reach. I often broke the silence if that means something to you. No matter how the flowers got here, they would be hers always.
Saturation still to do with marketing a thing, enlistment of component parts, including sky
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