extrasluttyoliveoil
Through the alleys and over parked cars, Tammy traversed the city in the hope that she might find a home worth the time it took to find it.
As they glide over the frets, each string sings a different story with every strike. In this way, no two strums are ever the same.
Like the avenues of yore
These vines, they wind
Across this house and through the fence
Under town and over time
To bring back the before
He, himself. An image of his past, present and future imposed on the canvas of his character by the stroke of his relentless desires.
I fear that nothing I say or do is or will ever be original, that it's all just recycled knowledge packaged slightly obscurely to be passed off as my own.
Jumping through hoops all the time can get exhausting, but just look at those calves. Damn.
I wish I was pulling from the same reservoir as I was when I was a kid. There was so much energy and time to spend back then. Now, everything just seems scarce.
Most people choose to tuck them away in the recesses of their speech, only to dust them off when they might garner something in return. I fear that someday we might lose the art of complimenting for good.
In his eyes, she is, was, and would always be perfect. He watched her grow from nothing and waited longingly for the day that he would be able to give her the remains of his kingdom.
You see things a little differently every day. And it's hard to say if that's you changing or if it's your world. There's a good chance, though, that it's a little of both.
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