what would you think if i could memorize the placement of every freckle on your pale skin, or recite, in detail, every thought you wish me to swallow?
i happen to be
disquieted by the apprehensive conclusion that you may not be a figment of my schizophrenic imagination, and the incantation of us is merely an adolescent fantasy, curiously etched into neurotically hopeful brainwaves
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