Broken fingers by the open tips. In your terminal, sometimes. They think with the subtlety of touch. Where dangerous caresses are discovered. To love thrown Reweavers of the remade threads of waiting. Tissu of salty mist. That rises in the wide distance. Sometimes a prisoner. Dreamy, sometimes. Of the wandering confinement worried. In the center of your reference. That the accursed winds incessantly surround....

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