minchopin
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a shattering of such glass: the zip-swift sound of a rope tightens around the squeal of rubber on the concrete. no, it’s the crinkling of plastic wrappers and the crackling of a fire. is he imagining the whistling, the soft snow falling to crown the golden-gray undulation of wind bent reeds, the crash-rattle of a daybreak that bleeds into the sea? (it is all yellow, so very yellow and love knows no time.)
— a remix of hyyh through the event horizon.