I’m in pain again, the troubled hue of Van Gogh wandering to an easel with a misplaced shoe. Listening to the sound of interlopers spark cigarettes, in windowed view. Marianelli in the background, with thoughts of an Austen procedure.

The nomenclature of a stable venture, long lingers. I hesitate to offer my red-nosed guidance, the proffering delights in breaking the perfectionistic shield in the vaunted exertion, the self-oriented middle finger. The melodic afterthought of a passing invention.

In every prosodic, quaint renaissance I pray for Taylor to get it together, while I invoke the madness letters, the letters spell out the collapse of my own favour. The last time I wrote and meant it, two weeks had past. I offered a disclaimer that was not going to last.

I should wear my glasses more often, enquire with deliberate sight. To gloss over the freedom, is no more than a blight. Such Neptunian wiles, contort nature to tempt, I’m a cast-away Tantalus, and my stretched arm laments.

My name is eternal, bearing the fruit of the earth, but my inner rebuke casts doubt to emerge as both the man and the snake, when the lines start to blur, to my stumbling namesake, when the promises stir, at the foot of the gates, casting faith if preferred.

Pick a card from my hand, I’m the hermit and crab, nothing spared from the nest, only flying the flag, for the ones who commit, to an invisible plan. The British man in his cape, seductress ensnared. He stacks the deck so the world is abreast, of what he expects of it next.

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