Windows sweat in your sway and I dreamt last night that it bled over me in waves of grace and trepidation that only a brush on hide could frame. A bosom is only as wild as the seeds it plants and yours are true Black Eyed Susans. I'd walk away with pale flesh if only I didn't know the elated reality of distended bruises. It doesn't matter the key nor tempo as long as it's a violent reaction. This realm hasn't been bred for meekness. Not for the likes of some I've known, nor for some I will, nor for the child I once was. Welcome to your thrash and radiance; it suits this circumference.
Regards,
Middle Chapters
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