All gone a little fast. Thievery of a heart-case unknown, deception of a distance
that precedes perception. The door closes, down the hall, as I talk to myself
in a blank stare. On the other end is anyone...I hope. Only...one is like to breathe,
and any can live. Fireside chats are warmth in between zero and one. Colorful
words to my grey-shade scheme. Outdated characters kept in passing,
exquisitely arranges by one of so few....they were arrange by you.
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