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April Abigail


As our duet of love, a performance shown, is put upon display for vulgar eyes on the floor; the lights change with painted overlooks splashing their palette of watercolours over our moving bodies.

To the beat we dance, our tune a virgin, for the tune's beat that we dance to is no longer a mere dance away, our dance must fly with this tune in time with the tune's beat and in beat with our dance that we synced to this tune.

We tune our bodies in, tune them perfectly together with not just the beat and our dance, but with each other's minds and each other's hearts.

Within our thin, weak, skinny minds our thoughts think their own thoughts, deeper within our thought's tune and beat it dances inside a caved-in thought of the thinking tune's rhythmic beat timing itself to our dance.

Matching in the sky, our steps amaze, no tune can support us on its waves of notes and colons and no beat can out-beat us in it's own tragedy of percussion.

Our dance is a shaman of ritual love, packaged under the moon's eye for all to see and admire in its own tunefully-beating-dancing light.

We are going to dance forever, dance until there's no dance left in us, dance until our blood mixes with each others and our soul's diseases decay with one another's and we become the dance.

The tune we create in our minds is that of purity, no one will hear this tune except for us. Me and You.

The beats will never fade, no stamp stopped too sincerely, no stomp slacking too slowly.

We're going to dance, we're going to dance, we're going to dance. We're going to dance to our own beat, to our own tune, and to our own love.

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