There was so much music back then among the haunt of birds and rags of clouds left afoot; asking me why I find them meaningful is like asking me about coffee — all answers lead back to waking up ready to love an orange morning like sun was in my backseat; or like a head ready to be adventurous when it is more broken. Last night I dreamt of a hundred well-choreographed giant robot fights and a batch of perfect gifts falling among the oily wounds and I guess that’s where a broken head can come from, too: among rags of clouds sliced out from the sky’s blade.
Bonjour!
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