Maybe this is how every night conspires. Shivering lines, broad and deep, as if the suffocating world lies on the shoulders, fragile and weak, heavy gait and surrendering breaths as if the doors grazed over the efforts, but weren’t the doors meant to be shut? The soothing ball, pale yet bright, sneaking through trees loving the sky all night, is a little more beautiful than sugared plate, love sprinkled roadside is a little more real than the packets inside, snoring leaves are a little more sleepy than eyes passing through midnight, broken twigs are a little more gorgeous than the mirror’s sight, the quietness is a little more intense than the within tides.

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