Dictatorial
The History of a Fire Escapea. If I add my words properly, you have filled my book. You have given me plenty to write out a poem, but I still find it hard to walk outside when the sun died down for the night.
b. Rain is beautiful; it reminds me of you. Delicate when it hits my skin; disintegrating when left on a rusty bench.
c. The bond between us is goddamn beautiful and distinct.
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