For, in midst of things, I harshly force myself appear to be something about accentuating pretentious. I have been out hiding in the open. Sunt hic etiam sua praemia laudi.
Humans only hurt, only humans hurt— and even by then all of the glorified sinking were not art. Every human bleed, even commoner. Talk divine. Sunt lacrimae rerum,
In sequence of create, law, punish, is to not know of your delicate creation. To be above is to not comprehend depth, to be underneath is to not able to be an observer.
...et mentem mortalia tangunt. Assumptions are calculated and dappling. No true art is made by empty minds. It has to be a turmoil.
Solve metus.
The bruised parts are at the core as everything else mounds around a shape. Feret haec aliquam tibi fama salutem. But I collapse inwards and there's no explanation. If there's something at it, I no longer possess such knowing of.
