roMANian MARginEa – II

A picture is a fact. – Ludwig Wittgenstein

There are some natural possibilities to conquer and for the sweet surrender to provoke the insiders. She loved the diabolic act in every moment. Burning historicism that never caught her attention to rewrite her theories. The parts of theories were slowly lost its parts and went dried to skip the blood circulation. She finally perceived the futility of her smile. Clearly the fear helped her to continue with erotic episodes. Her torture system has the same values and their pain always intend to follow the predefined points. They don’t care about the context but the first degree part of any structure. Drop by drop, the death flows through her vagina. Writhing bodies are talking about the domination of another path in the deep woods. She licked his sweating trembling fear, like an adamant mare. She came over him to control his audacious mind. Her eyes turned to green. Green like green to restrict the hottest creatures in the forest. To protect her children from the heights, she drinks his blood every night. His semen stain on her thighs spreads purple aroma all over her room.
The previous points were distorted by the new ones; it carries the meaning without the help of non-existing one. The pleasant one stays with the new air. What we can do in the empty building? Where are those insane people? Clear cut points are not coming in front of her to regulate the meanings. The painted wall is laughing at her, the hands of the wall touching to make her wall. She ran towards the green field, there she found him. She tied him with heavy iron rod. She fondled his organ and started to stroke it. In his orgasm, he squirted blood. His semen was already drunk by her. He forgot the pain of happiness. Her vagina bloomed like daffodils. The disease of love spreads all over her blood too. She couldn’t understand the rate of optimism.
Oh! This nature gazed at me! Living in my own similitude; the power of truth losing its truth, my own shadow laughing at me. Oh! This nature always gazed at me. Wrinkles on the skin of art, its extreme sound echoed in mighty hearts, though yet. Doubt of symbolism has reached the edge of vigorous method. It seems to be, or being to become a new way of new hope.

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