Filling my heart with stars, and my eyes with satire, to better understand love. What's the onset of such irrational desire? Like stars I am suspended. With satire I play the cynic. Furthermore I wish to learn to adore the idea of such a miraculous love dependents. Time has riddled me loveless to another heartbeat, and it's vacancy obscure to its catatonic magic. I've dealt down my cards of four hearts lost. Now to see only a madman's mystery to it. Forgotten, lost, and eclipsed from it, and bearing no velocity towards it. The broken me, and the mask behind it will never ever-last. So to the madman loves grasp is distant. A mind's betrayer, and cage that has become my fraudulent love deliverance.
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