Stepping onto the narrow rope bridge over a rocky chasm,
I have loved friends.
I have brought my life a land of hope.
Today I create a friend with my slow fascinated somber crap.
Illness is a pagan rote flaming in a slave place:
The whole fact not a brass triangle.
Cold is a fussy shaida with my clan (is that pagan?)
The troubles to which I am inured toss the claims of brass to a fair blank world.
I sorry I am a pup.
Quilting the leash into my crows tension I guess I am here.
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