There is something of the truth in, not having been there

And yet still having seen

The internet. Is a time machine

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Fresh intake. Pure power. Poor pet. It makes the memories valuable. It keeps the lives focused. Line by line book by book coat by coat check by check. It already sees the threat. Not random in the slightest. Not reasoned in the clearest. About as careful as drinking mercury. About as stable as a star serenading a supernova into infinity. About as cherry as a car caught in a cerulean cellar for centuries. Don't you miss your own health. Wouldn't you trade your whole wealth. As though anyone could understand. As in the one who can, who extends their hand, and burns their house to the ground, without saving a single cent of silverware. As though her hair wasn't one mute away from flourishing feathers. As though her arms weren't one pose away from mastering wings. What's a casual captive voice to say in a desert. What's the primal price to pay for a perfect planet in a letter. What's the use of a semaphore sun. When you're buried in alphabet sweaters