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He’s a hallucinogenic technicolor dream all dressed in black.

 

A valor to the day and a regular of the setting sun, a negative black and white version of the night sky.

 

There’s a whole range of grays that flow from his pink lips in the morning, a pleasant, contrasting masterpiece that moves.

 

He’s art, he’s love, he’s magic.

 

But he’s not mine.






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