. a distant memory of when there were scents of bloom frequencies of unfurling unknowing yearning sensing across hills and hollows our childhood corroded the mournful call of the house over glaciers of youth and whispers tears alloyed by the hands of time you see us in the archive footprints forged in frozen glints, anodized faces grimaces musings bodies releasing oxidized now I am all of us gathered in a dense farewell wound tight right beneath my navel .
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Final blog entry Rapture shuns remembering – like dreams when waking. Shared joy is not accustomed to explanation, an invention to measure lightness is yet to be discovered. But some dreams do stay with us, and are Blueprints of the Future. The time at the academy is one of them.
May women who cut people heads off who live freely whose fingers are stinky who wipe on their dresses their bloody nails be cursed Ambre.