What’s that? On your back on your side in your arms Only lonely. Loam fertile, blank brimming with darknesses. Snags of it under bones not unraveled. Plucked through by bones. Mires be,hold the rot. Still life in her arms her legs and between. He plucks a feel, her ‘tit mort nature more still. Shakes a little life in.

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and she stood and she stood and she stood