And you just keep singing 'save me, save me' while forgetting that these hands on fire won't go out if I dip too deeply. The burning sensation still comes, the reminders, the feelings. The times spent, like the curling candle wick alongside sleepers, turning to cracked black by the end of the flaming hands. Where did that wick go, blasted matchbook
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Penguins don't enjoy sleeping with umbrellas much.
You can trust me.
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i'll say that was one beautiful slew of images to wake up to in lit class.
there was a big thunderstorm last night; i'm rather disappointed i could not see the lightning from the basement. and the thunder seemed too distant. i thought maybe my dog was walking around upstairs. sleepless hours of madness.
on fucking in the back seat: i'd say it depends who's driving.
pain reminds me of necklaces of thorned roses and everyone has one (thank you francesca lia block for that. i still maintain you should read dangerous angels)
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Praise the thunder.
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& if i praised it, would the gods hear or are they dead already?
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are you purposely deleting your comment before posting them again? c'est juste confuse (and no ACCENT).
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that way, i can defy gravity.
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I must be informed of details
only from your lips though
kiss kiss <3
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They ruin my fun.
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