In the middle of the night had turned the pillow with a rare form.
[much is left of these spots, these hands (a spot, so staining), embedded in the penultimate joint of salvation, viscose, stains and marks that look, like horror, to contemplate, and redemption. Numb toe to toe, oily, to accompany them, all the needles (knee - on foot).
All the gray hairs of my body serve a just claim. I hope lying, I'm the nth port fish waste. Really I rot like that?]
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