Two eyes met two eyes.
It was magic in a defrosted city.
Motherfuckers on the road, poor kittens under moving rubbers,
guns through blurred halogen.
But they met.
Winter at it’s most depressed morning…you can see souls burning with the smokes of a lousy decaf,
and they met… their fingers met, their feet met with accelerations.
I often see two birds arguing and shitting together on a thin, weak, twig…
I guess none of them leave each other or die without using their wings; cause love has always been like winning a lottery when the entire number systems of this universe converse to make the coincidence never happen.

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Photograph: Google.