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Music that comes onto nowhere, shapes it, upwards to something, aching, teaching to thrill, backwards, opening.
"Wisht, wisht, now," she said, and at once became a vacuum. These are the days we dreamt about over moon-shaped anything, deep affection, my last most loved one noting the precipice five seconds too late and too modest. Softly rapture about intuitive glances, aol.com, America Online.
