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The Flushing words written on toilet paper, soft and quilted, offer a long winding 2 ply 200 feet of sensual stimulation. Inherently, the existence of rolling enlightenment dispensed at a whim is still nothing more than mere flowery decor. The bitter air still chokes on its own substance and a stink is still a skunk's perfume. Petals hint at silk complexion and rosy blush. The handle reminds you of every flush. The infidelity of words to their parchments-choosing others that are less accepting simply because it "feels" better. And even the producer of the arrangement can't control what floods out the mouth or fingertips and bleeds its beauty on whatever takes it. An ear or even eyes share the function that the snow soft that catches the marauding winter branch receiving its self only more permanently, but then melting away when its been used. Never reused. Nature flushes itself of refuse and words said and done are recycled into whirlpools named "Cliche" and spin back and splash to bear its presence. Lingering reminders-testaments that all you say is what is whats been said before. All that matters is how you say it. Toilet paper words go down the hole, but they left me soft and comfortable. by eternalslacker |