Beat around the brain-wall
Till the motion sets its own inertia.
There would be no more fatigue.
The blackness had a face.
Words in their own phase.
The last squeal of silence,
Till it's strangled by shame.
My appetite for patterns.
Till the motion sets its own inertia.
There would be no more fatigue.
The blackness had a face.
Words in their own phase.
The last squeal of silence,
Till it's strangled by shame.
My appetite for patterns.
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