“What is this benign madness?”, you ask. As the rain douses aching hearts on an afternoon too early. You wonder why the rooftops are silent though it is raining and offer an all-too-far-fetched response, like how the sound of sorrow during heartbreaks (like as if all things the eye cannot see makes a sound; you believe that flowers talk with actual voices) transcends the self and senses and the world falters when one slurs in a metaphysical state of mind blah blah blah blah blah. I listen half-heartedly as your slow drawls and whispers start rising in high pitches of excitement.

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