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You leave me tied to a crowd of words that desire lust like mechanical flesh, On a Sunday the cool breeze claims the safety of my self-discovery to humanize my memory with a rage: agonized anger and open-eyed blindness summing up all the paradoxes into a confession. You are like a purgative purifying my purpose with private peace; Your tongue inflames the fantasy to rob my death wish like an ego defining all the fire you have in arterial blood blessed with ideas. I dream a vulnerable inconclusive story with no end in view for the episodes of whim that bungle in the jungle of sins I love to overwrite with impatience, with implied figures of speech. Then I discover you like a smell you leave when you are just dust and evaporate into the embrace of magic to leave me jealous and curious.

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