Scripting scrolls, scratching to rewrite and scrutinize the moment...
Returning to the page for companionship in a crowded space. I taste the sweetness of suer expressions. it is a season yes a season of harvesting, some chapters are ending, page numbering increases, the sons reaching a transition. Silence captures the attention of he who behold. I gaze helplessly at the future of my people. Sing my song of sadness looking at the harvest that children stumble upon.
It is a state of standard stupidity staining the white petals of the flower, pushing the pen for profit practicing perfection.
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