I’m dying. Not in a good way. In a way that keeps you going. In a way that chips away all the will. In a way that breaks you down and builds you up in their image. I’m dying. I need a talk.
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what would you like to talk about?
Melted things
well, there’s candles, ice cream, the ice caps, and butter, delicious butter.
Cheese on a warm skillet and organs on a hot side walk. The yolk of an egg as it spills out of its shell. The paint for which my canvas will be colored