My letters drain a thoughtful being of composure.
My accounting has self-buried.
My field folded.
My train sweats grey hands out for a penny-wise walk.
My stain of high mid-nights, pleather talk and genius.
My reply ‘drain out stars in our BOX’
My loaded gun wandered Broadway bent to meet her.
My key has been placed gently in drawer.
My hands are giant seconds stretched.
My return promise to relearn the morning.
My grain resists passivity.
My strokes cohere towards vice.
My soldiers break ankles to dispose me.
My punches ink the street.
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