So the bricks were laid, he was getting out, yet still so manic-filled he had lost his mind and subsequent hysteria. “So is this all real too; conjectured? Life: to a panic that I can’t prescribe to a controlled end?” He was reaching in so he could reach out amongst the ruse of feral synaptic. They figured out in his tepid state, the myriad bouts that inundated and flooded his mind; asceticism, euphoria. And as he revealed his committed routes and the gates that he had left behind; a blessed, cursed man.
His mortal fear is a face his eyes rest upon beneath the surface. The refractions illuminate his rights to wrongs which extract a purpose for his revenge.
She was growing still with her birth to sin. The architects who sculpted and molded his profile will famously begin to recreate a new work of a man who considered his life dead without her. Will she recover from her wounds? So is this all real too; conjectured? Life: to a panic that he can’t prescribe to a controlled end?
So who’s the fool to be slaves under demigods? Does this make sense? A sadistic proposition will procure a beloved lament as he said, “If this is so real tonight, please someone send sunlight! If you’re so real and alive, why can’t I wake up?” He’s grown weary and he’s grown quiet now. When he’s pushed to the brink it brings him to the edge.
Something beyond this foreign eye, his sight; life springs to light, yet his inability for reason he can’t modify the colors that are in his sight. He was sent to die for the necessity to expose his alluring end.
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