xenomorphgirl at the beach

Forlorn whipped cream becomes the one you really desire. The beach rises, a mountain is born, the seasons collide, and I qualify. There among the bushes we found ourselves, an orogeny of communication, twisted among thieves, an apocalypso of belongings and lives. Raining down, it meets our glassy frames, the eyes becoming one with the beholder, two with the behind, and three with THEE fabby-dabby-dosy. Snow it is then, snow in the solar system.
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