September 11, 2010
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First the blow of the wave would feel indecent, secure; forwarded onto a board of blackened tint, allowing the genius to contemplate space inside an emotion, maps of scientific mathematics, inclusive towards understanding the field, governing a sore on your scalp. Conductor on the orchestra no.1, premature and sour, yet beautifully contained. Building an earth swollen with juices, cracked with the desire to make the others cringe but forgiving the emotion to persuade.
“This is it all along.”

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