Walking_
Thus is the surface of life, pocked, so many textured, some times white, and sometimes very dark.
Cantor through the shadows, walking on broken glass and feathers, close to dark. One only hears
the surface and let loose the whiperwils. On bended and broken, one clean walk, away with the
Shadows breathe, slowly, among us. But most finally, should the wind blow, not a fiber might stir.
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