Some things just disappear and this is the purpose of wings. They were not to float silently as the doves, nor to reach the upper air of endless skies. They have grown on us to fall across the universe, with the thirst of what went devoid. There are so many stars to find drowning in the cosmic lead, so your feathers will be guns if you want to tear the sun; needle it back for the rays in your head. And if you want to spit the sperm out of your raped heart, go ahead.

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