Friends of Humanity

Space aligns to the nutrients of the soil in finger tips as they pick and pry apart history of one’s own personal-memory where days, had been and are only, the result of as shown in the wrinkles of a screen. Time must be hanging around back with old cigarette smells the one’s from way back before any of us, who watch any of this, were born. Still, newspapers interject grammar recycles intent and later, before before could invent way-back, there must’ve been something which smelled of good wine, aged, cold, prepared in chilled glass with vanilla of a ghoul’s tooth as it fell from the froth of a fallen table held in the consciousness of mind.

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