The skin renders tight and the feelings become tender. Your fingertips, they take a journey and they ebb and flow through the tides of this mirage blueprint. And they crave to stagger, and they crave to give joy.
The body shrinks into a state in which the hearts becomes too heavy to track, which beats like a planet's core ghettoblaster.
And I'm scared, and I scare and scatter. The feelings, they want to resolve in a safety way. And they want to become one.
But we glower, and full of grief we look for the time, consequently, the place, and hope that, by the strength of the unborn and the determination of the lost ones, can stand still without stuttering.
But the feelings, they fight, cocky and determined, to get a hold of the main structure. They want to take over the steering wheel, and channel the whole display.
But the lost ones, all those words that should have said and all those feelings not meant to be, the enemy's army, they struggle back, and manage to break down.
They look forward to becoming one. They look forward to the unison of a synth and a horn.
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