the distorted double imagery that pops out of the mirror and stays right in front of you, giving you a plateful of doubtful advice that lingers and stays in until you decide to put your finger on others secret colours.

in the night when the twisted minded child that longs for the comfort side of a pigment of their own mutilation screams wildly and quietly in their own veil of stagnation, face themselves with their own allusion in bed, for the sake of waking up suddenly in the middle of the night and put the knife in the back of your collection of pitiful lovers


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