Im a lonely piece of writing. Give me a name. Im a story of love. Show me some love. I am a romance

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I’m a lonely piece of writing. Give me a name. I’m a story of love. Show me some love. I am a romance: mero-mero-mero-- mellow. I’m a finite shard of uselessness, cut out from my mother’s bosom by crude hands; prematurely… much too soon. Give me an excuse. I stray from infinity’s circles into your palm. This attraction is too strong. Even Physics couldn’t smother me down. Give me a name. Your voice grants my life; so long as it rings I’m there; reading, listening; writing. Your breath cleanses me off all the rubbish: it is my shower of solace.

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Wandering round unspecified figures in the blank of whiteness, I feel like I never left the spot I first defiled. Stroking the starter’s ‘I’, I fall into o’s crater and quarrel with my r, to hover back over an insolent little i. Say my name for I am wandering still.

What has been deprived of morality and bias becomes pure logic: facts without origin, like capital letters standing immovably over their line just to fulfill a baseless criterion that forbids resting. Unaltered chords exist in every passion. To make them but quiver, our lives are spent. As such, we are ...

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