Some might argue about my own vertiginous verbose when you insult me with your opportunist propaganda. I fell for you, just in time for the anger of blizzards, when you knew I couldn’t hold on to my ticket. You stirred up snow in front of your blindfold, making both of us limited to see beyond our intentions.

You glance at me, but you could glance beside me. I could think of fearing you, but I’m no one to hold the flood in you. A whiteout shrouds our virtuous nothingness, only to repel the leverage of this tense scenario. Because there is only you and me in this spatial Holy See.


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