"poka or die."
droplets of sweat beaded the floor. those bright blue eyes framed in lashes that swept up to her brows. the smell of cucumbersandashes, of vanilla scattered upon stones. the utterance of every word hitting reality like goblets of emerald glass.
lying awake on cotton sheets on hothot summer nights, as my guitar gently weeps playing
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either die at twenty eight.
or never die at all.
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