Just the same, and I name the nearing, in its deranged sanity, a tentative apocalypse, a wanna be utopia, pluto going direct into the virgin era to let her spin the bad character into a hero, the plot had to show up last: happiness is easy, it rhymes with itself, see? Apple bitten, gnawed, whole again. Take out the 'again,' which is the role fear plays in anything sensual, to double it with— yields ago, I would have prayed for the same ache twice and called the echo pleasure, moaned, touched you there. How many futures make a soul?
