Swimming heart open in to open books, fresh pages, virgin words. Putting pens to paper, letting them move, following them where they wish to go. Feeling the sun and pushing down the swirling of everything from my head to my heart to my stomach. You can't rule over those organs any longer. Sticky, dirty fingers and crisp cut edges of paper and images making new images making feelings, forcing the rays out.
Internally smashing the pits and lessening the collection. Too much life could be left to be full already.
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