Chauffeur breaks, talisman goods on a plate. Silver streaks of your memoir, the silkiness of luck. Where is danger in your eyes? The gleaming star of ferocity? The sun that shines in your irises as bright as can be. Licks of alcohol and a pinch of salt was all it took to bring you down, down the tunnel. The hole that twisted the frail ankle of you. Void. Darkness ensued, but only for a moment of silence it grew with determination to grow and be true! Oh how dreams of infatuation could flatter me so. Petals of sighs in the wind to your every breath. The death of an old beginning. The memoir that brought you back to life, a book filled with true lies of your world. How sick do you think we are, for your death to belittle me? How intricate the threads of deceit sown beautifully in the eye of the beholder. Luck has no meaning. Luck is as good as that duck about to get killed by a ruthless hunter with nothing but stupidity and a great aim going on for him. SQUAT, BAM! “There’s a great hit!” The old idiot said. Just like you. The memoir was the hunter as I, and many others, but more importantly, I was the duck. Your true lies seared the biggest organ on my body, through the woven folds, slipping between the ossified branches, right into my bloody pump.
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