I never looked up and forgot what was down

I'm looking for a sentence to tangent to!

Since I am filled with every longing that is a reflection of making fun of myself. So many books and millions of sentences about reading while you are a bookkeeper of your heart are dancing in my twitching eyes. My pupils and I enjoy filling the day and life with spelling mistakes.

Should I say a busy life?

Otherwise, the child inside of me, who I grew up sleeping like a dream in which the dream was secluded, where I had to do euthanasia, when I had to stand upright on an axis in the past, and maybe the evil eye bead is stuck somewhere inside me.

In the pendulum of my hope.

In the cistern of my sleep.

With the awareness of living in a century I do not belong to, and the writers I pursued, their pens and the noble feeling of traveling to their world, the happiness that comes from life has gone into the habit of adding a new ring to the circles of a happiness that is hard to reject, and a new one from me.

I am listing my words in my knees, my knees are loosening, and I am listing all the emotions that remain in the black box, and I try to understand the event with the commands I give to my brain, which violates my heart as well as my lower memory.

It's not about a life that is being burned, but the issue is not my life, or it is hidden in my destiny where I lost hope and set out to make headlines with a pain that intimidates the discordant demon, knowing that sometimes faded nature can still be capable of smiling again. My inner voice and pen that I put on hold when I was a child with my belief in the existence of miracles.

The delusions of my weary soul and my growing pupils and the chaos that I fell into, however, is neither a dark, mountainous stony nor an abandoned region, the huge field hidden inside me, and the pearls that fallow my words and fall all day long, it's like a mercy that I surrender myself with the miraculous awareness of making the night bright. .

I wish this note was read or forgotten after it was read.

If it is a miracle, the nature of the quote; If it is a rhyme, the tears I shed inside me and here is the prophecy I developed that I spent every night and day on watch in which my prayers were answered, and maybe that's why I live in seclusion: you know a huge sarcophagus and that gigantic cocoon into which I was drawn when I was the center of the world where I was lost inside and out. Thanks to the Creator, who allowed my heart to live, the world full of people I love with my heart, while each of them is hidden, is in God's sight.

Everything or nothing at stake.

A staircase that I vouch for my words, maybe I climbed a floor, looked up and forgot what was below, then wrote and escaped from myself, in fact, thanks to the consultation I made with myself, my wishes for the birth of a new me were somehow approved.

What if I paused while living, writing?

My previous life, which I fictionalized while writing, and my heart dripping from the pen without thinking, I put a big bracket in the cradle of rebirth, and my share of sequential unordered deaths, indicating that the aftermath was a miracle.

My miter broken protractor too.

My pain is unusual and variable in angle.