Dear Paul
I
found your nose in my chicken pie, and lightly sent you smoke and
glassy pans and things to bake clay on. No you don't. I'm a terrible
badger of late, making bad on my lightness, my room of books, ashtrays,
the precise way I move here and steer the garbage into corners. The
foundations of which, you weren't here for. It was me and jimmy hopping
about it was summer we sucked ice. I wasn't happy but I wanted nothing
either. I felt helpful and suprised, and now my room is still. It feels
like lens cleaner and grandma's fan respectively, and the smoke goes
long over everything making me weaker, as you said, but also more mine
than I expected. I'm not sure why it's so annoying. If I thought my job
was to hold back, then fine, but lately the way we work is more geared
toward regretfulness, and the soup of knowing something and stirring. I
have a hard time building things inside you and you know that. I also
can't envision decisions, that must come across as well, and it's okay
take to filling the holes slow, and do them surely. But before that,
the gnats. My heater keeps turning off. I thought the doll was a texas
fetish and I was wrong about that. I also thought too through our final
argument, and I wanted to already have driven home, all asides, and sit
here. I don't realize things about forgetting, because I don't want to.
I also have a kind of reserve about finishing things, this is true
across the board. There's still an imp, a kind of wishing with
fingernails, and I want to dispel it. There's whole pieces of our
bodies yet to project upon and I dread it, but there's also the sewing
that understands your big manuver. When I said 'you don't cover
anything about me up" and such. I spoke so much of you over Christma
and seeing inside your house makes me afraid. Also walking the dog at
night, the way things get smaller on the sides, and how I thrash what I
want against you. There's been no ravishing lately, I've noticed. But
home does things like that and what I want to stay, I will. And what
goes to the flourishing is a kind of a joke. I've noticed so many
people like us, and I'm very much trying laughing now.
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