dry

unbeknownst to me but sweat as a salt substitute was the business of moving off his face at a most hurried rapid pace. i didn’t know my gifts could do to him things unfamiliar to me a lesser warrior than him. he is a fierce beast when ripping kamikaze in the his usual dive off a light summit into the horizon on a crystal clear day of refracted mellow to being. but now astride a pale donkey he’s smacked around like a clown working fiercely to frown. but he his better. in the shade of a mushroom cap hanging tough as a new kid with Sprites, faeries and African Irish Indians to hold and hug him. giving him sugar in kisses to transform his waning into a waxing bliss.

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