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I get jealous of the ones who have that passion. Fruits of feeling feeling hurt and healing, skins peeling from Life’s rocks cascading off the hard places may soon to come. Real heart and expression coming from the womb of the soul.

My and my I vs. I, flesh of my flesh and mind of my mind. Locusts make locus of cultural cohesion, swarm me rigid, riveted, upbeat the down pulse to invigorate the bodice, mental calmness qua spirit stimulation. Qua que quo who am I who dat who.

I started the riff on my jealousy woes, the yearning for feeling and love in the bones. The heart and soul of poets and artistos, food for the soul no Gatorade and Doritos. Manic gamers like me fuelling fire of diversion and crass pro nation. Art important but lost the artsoul. Deviate from the people’s voice and drown my throat and ears in clouds and vice. Anger bang the world with fingers up. Fisticuff fingercuffs chasing Amy’s so distant. Running through Animus like Creed such a Victor…

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