Its as though I tell myself before I begin to blurt out absurdities that they are non-fiction, that I am correct, and even just, with my violent phrasing. I then realize in the aftermath of my ferocious word storm that this repetitive game of boggle is warping my mind.
I long to speak in a mist of spring perfume, spouting loveliness whenever my lips open. However, no matter how hard I try I remain stubborn and unpursed.
It was as though only a minute ago that I was content with a placid morning. Nevertheless, my mouth seems to grow more cantankerous, as my heart grows fonder of those tranquil moments.
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