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She 's near granite. But Hyperion holds the consoling constellation, a calvacade of flowering mythology and opulent hands waving the flicking skyway. Studded with its fat moon gibbous to the crying ... summer' harpoon the big black thing.... and if hands wear thieves knight are bold yet ever holding their timid hearts back... of the hearts broke there's often no door swinging back open...

She held it to her ear. Her eye in the interval came landscapes. What of it and its paradox, does this forebode telling the truth as the truth might stand in the way of creations and the rueful air doesnt block the paradox but heads the summit of summers and the radiant thread refined to culminate in silhouettes

So love's paradigm?

Tu est ange

J'aimerais bien être un ange qui vive dans vos hanches

C'est ta corps sans organe qui me fait pleurer'

Mona coure vites dans la directions des amants