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she is night-blooming, shade-flourishing. like a false memory, her illusory remains are kept in yellowed-by-the-time containers. rectangularly irrelevant. i repeat: she blossoms at night. only then. and she grows her petals in all types of shapes, but restricted colors. one cannot be free in all of the self dimensions, she writes obsessively in an attempt to convince her world. i should add: she was moon, never sun. she repeats: i flourish in (your) shades, in your shapes.