The air is creamy and obese as it billows past the leopard print curtains. Morning’s wet velvet caress tickles Jane back into reality as yawns spill from her nimble lips. The sun’s newfangled rays burnt away Night’s well and dawn’s dew misses the wet stone. Nostalgia dangles its sagging breasts as the dew echoes its lost hollowness by gathering into circles and watching the world. Aeolus breathes onto the palette of the sky and clouds mushroom forth, gathering the waning dew.
Fugitive of fountainhead moments;
The halting martyr forestalling fate’s cyclical currents;
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