Eight legs fall into the link soaring up of globes. Strings bring all together, air rounds them over upon its levels. Dreaming of the higher means can burn into rubber. Looks are built from scratch, bump, and edge. Maybe it's attention, or excuse, or goal which lacks my touch. Ice melts and becomes the wave for intake, like fire or stone. Once there I strive for perfection when a cloud breaks away the space. A mental drain turns out nice where everything causes its void. Theories fly down across my outside glances. Love, as it stands, may lose the distance among moments on end. Your lucky shot breathes its only tune for elements beneath light. Darkness from light, light from darkness. Jelly holds the alternative fruits where thoughts seek for resistance. Cashless freedoms keep in rhythm beyond the last match burning its fumes.
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