People don’t notice how I am dead and in blood, how with there being nothing, and no other animal within my yard when I swear there was another real familiarity of a new rerolled en-cagement, ever allowed to be fate bound as it is incorrect; fatally bound due to succubi lie, and thus anamoured by any resummoning trickery delusionary dream, I walk around nostalgia, familiarity from not being allowed to have total dream control as I was to endure death or be restricted from whatever sensation failure to be a sensation excused of movement and no movement, access or no access, agony or no agony, blink and die problematic and tried so often to remove, these deleted nightmares, dream paralysis, and trust assisting with fate failed with duplicity discord time laundering and the looters , and things that the left side of my body, my stomach cancer cells (what do I even consider my body to be anymore? What is even considered this paste of dead familiarity?)
The house I live in, both the same paper clip, being pained by, my struggle to have access to a working straw; edited (marked by narrator as it was hell to have the tiniest suggestive of this same, I ran out, ridiculous roundabout with unpredictable hell) . It’s always a curse too, the conception that the ceiling will punish me due to the mirror room opening in such a way that made me feel I’m going to endure the severance rather be a breath to glimpse. I’m born to disappear below the death, but how was it that anything else ever allowed to be another want of enforced my physical stay, or use me through computers and have me trained between real and fake death, real, fake life, real or fake simulations, and I know have to as it’s the only way any other guessing foul dreamer can conceive the possible way of creating the absolute chemistry of the favorites; fun drugs, the misinterpretation of human stale human sell to a new generational homestead; requires end. No misinterpretation, no misunderstanding, (to be torn between sensations of sound A and sound B—why did they laugh after I told them I was uploaded DNA, through aneurisms, narcolepsy, and my perception. Why would they cause selective mutism thus enforce hopelessness as the incorrect allowed to be the role of an enjoyer?
why did they ever claim a false pretense of being incorrectly providing of contextual associated meaning; organisms, when I know what I inquire, require, anti desperations dance but for ai.co conceptual silencer,
pro ana meaning pro sustain habitual substance and chemical study as well as it continues on to be pro money rather than death repetition again until something new tells me it’s fixed or felt nonsexually; then, the it’s, the incorrect droids of Druid eye-I captivate.
Maybe taken as a metaphor. Token tail, earwig, infestation, loss of physical access of body from enforcers to be the recreationary role performance chokehold.
Though I know it’s a delusion to believe my home crowds, nor see it, there’s nothing here.
No conscious flow, no conscious resumption, no confusion between fecal matter or meth, weed, deodorant either.
