Sou Bruxa.
Sou menina.
Sou repugnante e repulsiva.

Shellac coated hands but still drips run down and human becomes too human. Wound and bound, open and close slowly. Pull back, jilt and peer. Hide behind tobacco barriers. Stay away from me.
Realise without verbalising. We are too human, more so than those who solve, embrace, feel and use their own philosophies without dread. Those who make. Not we who speak.
A journey of cerebral inquisition leads to infallible learnings of who I am and what you do. Soul gazing in Io’s lava lakes with an abundance of ineptitude that can only come from damaged hearts and demotivated ambition. Mediocre at best but remain confident and talk as any good genius would. I will aim for the unattainable, lest I settle for this stagnant mediocrity.
But the smell is lingering here in the L shaped room. Many possible solutions have been developed. They have culminated in a paradox of exhilaration and ennui, a parallel of desire and hate.

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