at times, as a writer, you're screwed  if your words ramble without climax, paralyzed into a marginal symptom ‧ the main characteristic of your spirit corresponds to a muse whose tariff is billed in polyandry or polygamy's art ‧ for you know, y'know so bloody well, art never reacts to monogamy's coin, and chic words' silhouette, cultivates

till I finalize my hellos, you're at your home, while some didn't leave yet ‧ like an empirical kind, wind down and take note to convince yourself ‧ in the shelter of the art only you can phrase dégagé, [I long to feel your love]