I crave the flesh of the earth. The color of the skies. The alcohol as deep as the darkness of our sea.
I shall not weaver throughout the darkness of the days past and present, for one does not writhe upon that which is the place of rest.
I shall endeavour the drinking of time and timeless voice. The trick the ignorant have called silence since ages beyond the names of our tongues.
I shall endlessly reverberate the echoes of the perfect act, the imperfection that is laid upon acceptance. I will remember our lost past days, if what we craved was real.
I shall not weaver throughout the darkness of the days past and present, for one does not writhe upon that which is the place of rest.
I shall endeavour the drinking of time and timeless voice. The trick the ignorant have called silence since ages beyond the names of our tongues.
I shall endlessly reverberate the echoes of the perfect act, the imperfection that is laid upon acceptance. I will remember our lost past days, if what we craved was real.
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