of saying,i am only.

Printed pixels stretched and black and black are words conscious of words,as he writes this.
In defiance of a sense of self. Instead it is only an etched ivory sculpture keyboard. Dedicated lines to another.
It's intense individuation. It's only reason. Its deliberate stumble. It's words. Only its words stumble. Only,it's words.
It gets worse shadow of saying it follows itself, words. Inside the line it is only. Only self critical reflection. The Idiot. Is it in the arch an angle. An angle on a handwriting analysis.
A scarred mirror cracked open to look inside,between the lines. It is almost too much. Too much. It is. Too much, almost. It is too much. The cohorts consonants, eidetic tongs to the insides of sounds, prayer and glossolalia, like a special force. Intentions in the inside instead of. Inside the lines it is only an it. Reel em' in. Mister terse, he said. Brevity is the soul of "He Dead".Left overs out of construct,labors he said. I am expressing someone else.

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