BRIGHT METAL FRAIL REED my breath loves to narrow itself lips and cheeks constrain or release it through the cavern of my wanting of speech of food and drink and if there is a mind chasing after it it is shaped by the hollows of my desires the wind in me blows my fingers about like the tops of trees in a storm and having no will the storm only listens (though it seems to demand it is for the sake of form only)
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