No purpose, no more, fading from the light, waiting for the night. Simply abstracted, falling together, one by one. And with the hanging gardens, with all it's beauty, holds it's crying statues bleeding they're crimson tears.
From the eyes of the feline, from all it's skill comes beauty and grace. Grace of the ballet, ballet in the wastelands, wastelands to a point, point of the needle, needless to say.
Say anything.
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