See, that was the point when my ship came in. It was marked by bitter cold days holed up in one room high, looking out into fairer weather. And sure, things have gotten smoother and smoother. I bake better cakes now. However, I don't eat them.

I never have to worry, early and late, time is no longer sweetened by coffee or bittered by long walks. No legs, no steppin' out, all is gentle.

Summarizing this inpatient snag: so tired of this agitating gambol, want to witness ambrosial suction. From this time, magnitude sheathed by osculation, a narrow haggard woman in my hallway envious and grief-stricken.

This is not literary libel, but I was the newel and you called me your sycophant.

Playing tadpole with the other girls, your lack of congeality swipes at me...I want a fucking rhapsody, a palliative of clearances, each day enclosed within a siege of liberation. I want deliberate soapy benediction, to be scored by my muriatic god.

And then again, I will not wait for that ship, but bloom; low and crouched thriving in concave reasonless Elysium with my fortune.

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