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I touched the birth flower, I kissed it and felt the beauty of love. The sickly sweet fragrance of happiness, pungent and musky like tacky perfume. Tiny droplets of rain, delicately slapping onto her smooth, bare legs. Rolling on the surface until getting caught in the creases of her bent knee. Her face, luscious like the silk of a refreshing autumnal bed sheet, aired out on a windy suburban veranda. Each part of her body pulsating against yours, each pound more violent than the first, beating heavy and hard, enough to crush a glacier. She is all satisfaction and serenity, that single milky lick of a vanilla cone on that perfect summer day when you were 6, and carefree, playing with your siblings on that sandy beach while your loving parents watched from a distance. Before it all turned sour, before you knew the truth about your parents’ migration, before you learnt to swear, when you were still innocent and naive. She made you feel the same bliss as when your daddy held your hand and walked you to the circus for the first time. Made you feel as loved as when mum hugged you just before your first day of kindergarten. She made me feel like everything was alright, that the world was fair, that I had a purpose. That she was my purpose. And then within a day she could reduce you to nothing, like finding out your grandparent has a terminal illness. The darkness spreading inside of you, taking over each organ, one day at a time.
(Source: phanosland)
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Robin doing his own soundcheck at Falls!
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