compulsion to be adequate

my tastes are fickle; acknowledging, not feasting on those palatable concepts that promise to recognize themselves within my very fabric – my modicum of wavering crystal-like moisture identified by a deluge above, without

filling up and gaining ground until my thoughts become temporarily unbalanced; a confessional and an indulgence taking more of what is already there, magnification, celebration, arrogance

individuality comes when I find myself tasting of the waters to find that they make my mouth dry, sour, blistering


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