Dear Camille Claudel, It easy to enter inside the city when I have painted last lost midnight without any midnight dogs interruption after watching your statues in me. Heard that you had flooded up your whole life in tears that no one can ever estimate in their middling senses. Death works are continued by your smooth fingers in a heavy amount of dope challenge. You welcomed the ferocious pain through a chisel like the words are submerged while you hollered at this world. Lonely you laughed like a devil in a room instead of crying, your eyes, your hands are your eyes, your fingers are your senses, it found the alive people inside the white stones. When he said to you, “You and I are freaks of nature. We’re the same breed”, then you replied to him, “You’re dreaming, Rodin. An idyllic romance in a castle…we’re two ghosts in a wasteland”. You are right, we all are ghosts, nude ghosts, our ugly finger nails are peeling each others skin, eating the eyeballs, biting the neck with our sharp teeth, chopping our members. Your sweating hands might be very tasty, I wish I could have crush it by my brown teeth. Can you come out from the coffin? Can you sculpt me by your male hands? What was in your mind when you were working “The Implorer”? Touch my body, caress my ego, slap me as much as possible, calculate my details, spit inside my mouth, lick my eyes, bit my chest, punch my stomach, pull my hair so wild, rip my organ if you dislike the male sadist inside me, then change the shape of me up to your imagination to kill the cruel orgasm without any fellow feeling. Some missing pieces are the only witness for your story which was uprooted from this earth. Someone is walking with your shadows that you left behind your death, death of stones, show me the pieces of your porkies. Following your shadows in a candle light to advice you in me to learn the art of ignorance. Dear death, after finishing the statues, my foot steps will come towards you to get the salt kisses from you. Allow me in that time, trust me, there is no space in between anyone. Don’t feel guilty to ignore me in the time of dark. Camille, are you still crying for your sculptures or for your lost love? You have already killed your nights to get a dreamless sleep. Laughing at you sometimes to hit you with my cunning tone to dissolve you in my strange disgusting land. You are a poison ivy to yourself, slowly that poison is burning the skin of my words, they are mixed up with past and present calculations to put an end without an end.

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