Whence I write, whence I stay.
Its somewhere in the beginning, its somewhere in the middle, a glaring gun, an ogling look at what is never limitation, never bound.
There is no time wasted, I wait.
Whence she comes, whence she stays.
She is absent; she is outside antiquated and cold. A disappeared castaway found on chance, initiated and launched. Allied to luminosity and inferno she ignites my frenzy.
There is no time wasted, I wait.
Whence it starts, whence it lives.
By whose help and through what medium is not indulged, my un pretended mastery my explosive unprotected acme, my fragile consummation is crowned and waiting.
There is no time wasted, I wait.
Whence it leaves, whence it dies.
Never.
There is no time. I still wait.
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