Slow Morning Journal or incompetence. The passion burns like a flame forgotten. This destroys the doubt, leaving only the infamy of her who does evil a little too well. She gets up to discover only the hardened sap past while still hot. The time that is lost eventually reveal the uncertainty of the beast. Glued to the sheet, it becomes the symbol of what remains when we no longer know how to describe the void that stretches. She does not know the tie invented and that it lets out a breath stronger. She does not know recognize the tasty possession. It causes the interjection to feel alive. This is it in fact that the gift of past deviance? In an exaggerated swaying, gently spread abroad aversion between the thighs of the woman who lives in snapshots. The sweet smell of morning no longer able to pull from a coma she fears. She has already tasted this time, but never defeated. Identity is slowly deconstructed cast doubt on the bitter red lips half-closed. It gets stuck. There is no one to understand. No one to catch up. We forget in his comfortable silences. We only see the fire.
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