As your breath has done me the favor of falling into near-perfect synchronization with the bullets being fired out of doors, it has become possible for me to pretend. Through and through and through again, it's hollowed out existence until wisdom has grown into the brick walls, redder and redder as the night burns on. Faltering only once on the subject of their mortality, she and him watched the trees get milled down like it couldn't have been avoided. It was too late for her. They didn't stand a chance.
But now you're lying in my skin without announcing your exuent or pronouncing my resignation in your native tongue, and the residual longing in my collar bones has calcified so that you fit into my skeletal structure. I never would have guessed, before I saw the outer working of your tributary sacrifices, that it was you all along.
Seems to be the truth buried in a hazy reality and a silenced click of the shutter.
Sleep well.
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