Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth with a hint of mauvish whisper the whisper spills everywhere enveloping things around me. Dreams create illusion of being permanent of sticking to the odd times with a mayhem stuck to the air. You would wish to sit and digest each tiny aspect of dreams with a mind of a spider trying to decode the methods but you would end up missing on your pills. It does not matter anymore the warm shade of conclusions till the time your hands are rooted in the soil till the time you hands feel the pain, yellow or orange. There is something to change the blood into passion, dreams that becomes nightmares colours that become a chalice of poison. It does not matter.
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