meme war

and I only like to talk about the sad shit when my world is suspiciously quiet, bolstered by cotton or unmarked hours or the heavy scent of lime;

I only talk about the sad shit when I can touch it like a rope of pearls spread across a satin pillow reflecting a thousand melancholy whispers in each sphere – each sphere, taking up a certain amount of space in each eye with a certain amount of weight in each hand

I yammer on about the fucking spherical shit that I want to put in my mouth and crush into my skin and make some sort of surface that is no longer reflective but potent and makes your irises adjust

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