the quality.


That dripping lotus smile of hope. I won’t say faith, it couldn’t be naked enough - just to have faith. A twig she snapped in whispy passing, smouldering Tower of that subjective aesthetic decibel. Wholesome tufts of cigarette smoke. Truffles of delicate porcelain, so. 

My fumes on the door in my forehead, like the ill opaque.

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Posted on Thursday, 19 April
Tagged as: prose
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  1. camelights posted this