Wooly road socks. Cracked quartz. A list will never replace the essence. But may direct us? I can't wait for May!
But the fleas . . . A field in which years ago I noticed how tired the deer look in Spring. My life is not a loaded gun. Little gardens. Don't go.
Stay. Stay for the repetitious burial. Dystopia is a lack of faith, kind of. The secrets we keep from those we "love." I mean prayer of course.
I mean I'm scared, honestly. Liberation from this itchy skin now! One is not a different person when their feet are bare. That essence? That yes anyway.
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