creation is just one breath away, choked at the larynx, kneaded like imaginary dough waiting to happen between corn-starched hands. Slipping, somehow, wrestling the noose of its own umbilical cord.
Distracted by crawling thought rising like bubbles. Again with this fight for self-restraint, against sinking too deeply, too fast.
And perplexed by the color of a certain pair of eyes.
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