Crows fly by, in such an exquisite manner, while you seem to miss the idealistic importance of this action. Just taking a glance, giving the illusion of being omitted, will not fulfill the extent that is needed. A mirage set out by the devil himself, she is only his machine. Shooting her teeth into your thoughts, to elude the teachings before us. This wall, the fork of the road, dividing the line between collision and assurance. Bringing to terms the overwhelming presence of the deep, crushing into this delicate form she has taken. Was this "fate" meant for such an accursed demanding? Emptying from its carriage, seeming to exit the occurrence of one man's ideas. |
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October 1, 2006
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