The pit. The slope was rough and voices sunk the iron lower in my blood.
Crying and pissing, only to find out the cutting wasn't done.
The volumes of saltiness weren't enough.
More blood and tears, you can fight.
Get the fuck up and fight.
Whose temper is this anyway?
Fractured soul, aching glove, dismounted spirits, awoke the William Blake cackling.
The loud and ominous Matt Lewis echo deep within.
Those Woolf strolls and O'Connor wanders were not enough.
The fantasy novel wouldn't bare to time, it had only beckoned attentive eyes and thrills of the reader. Bear with it, page after page, no trilogy this time love.
Cast your doubt into the wind, roar at the thunder and be patient with the lightning, for these give one more power.
Rather than stealing oil from one's fingers.
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