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“The night like ink it stains the surfaces it spilt across the words as though some poet bearing veins of indigo they asked you once by day to bind before the night like ink dissolved within them and the words returning to their wordless state become the beats that take all paths leading from the heart returning to it the night dissolved like ink in the veins of any poet” — Tamara Rendell
The night like ink it stains the surfaces it spilt across the words as though some poet bearing veins of indigo they asked you once by day to bind before the night like ink dissolved within them and the words returning to their wordless state become the beats that take all paths leading from the heart returning to it the night dissolved like ink in the veins of any poet