My Dear,
does the breeze blow for us?
Turning turbines and giving sweaty children a memory?
Or does it blast in spite if us, ripping through our hearts as if
we are but a methanol crease on the pages of the records of its home?
does the breeze blow for us?
Turning turbines and giving sweaty children a memory?
Or does it blast in spite if us, ripping through our hearts as if
we are but a methanol crease on the pages of the records of its home?



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