it is not often the wind catches fire in the resting embers of her heart, blazing bright along the secret linear line of her life. the strange stability of her intuitive intellect would then surface ready to fight the fierce baffling battle. corrupt the flames of foreplay to her existence created a tender tension beckoning, wanting so much more than what she offered. with endless effort her glass face held up to the fiery light cooling the madness within.
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this week’s 3ww: corrupt, tension, intellect