Need is not generous. None is all reward. Eyes minus the talon delusions that only complicate the letting go. Leave me a maw where I can twist in the ganglia. Sometimes I feel like sweating. Why give it a name? Stylish grace is nothing but a fall that moves to fast for you to know the spike is there, waiting on hose to trim the crease that otherwise will not glow. I'm not in for escape, though abortion is fine. Tell me what deceives your sleep into believing in the breaking day. I'll listen for footsteps. The intrusion sustains me.

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