"It's not really poetry, but it's pretty," he said. As he raises his voice, she lowers her head. "It makes my heart heavy, you're lonely, I think. Oh, Rose, you're sad, I suppose." "Look in her bed and she's bound to be sleeping. She's lying there dead. - No, she's breathing." Furious Rose, with your opiate eyes, your languorous hum, that tone of surprise I've heard energy in adversity. Your smile: the soul of witchery. You're not running away, you're not running - are you? Lyrically longing, she's tearing the words from the page. She's fearfully seething. "Bring me your blessings, a prayer, or a new pen. - You don't know what I need." "Look in my bed and I'm bound to be sleeping, I'm lying there dead, but I'm breathing. And I'm barely balancing as it is, and I don't want to drown in my dreams Bring me wild plums and agrimony - I bet you don't even know what that means." Furious Rose with your opiate eyes, your languorous hum, that tone of surprise. I've heard energy in adversity. Your smile: the soul of witchery. You're not running away, you're not running - are you? Gingerly peering, over his shoulder, removed herself from the room. She's terribly freezing, she always knows when to go.
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