Paragraph’s II

I died…

was being held in an anecdotal bastille, the bars, the tethered fever of prolonged, drawn-out nights, where memories restless break through the vinous embrace of my moral barriers.

It seems only copulating memories dwell here. My memories overlap the memories of others, likened onto a watered-down scent, that fades, yet lingers on the periphery, rebirthing what was thought forgotten — where religion

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R Tsambounieri Talarantas

R Tsambounieri Talarantas

In my spare time, I’ll be found at my favorite writing spot— where death surely cannot miss me. I’ve been censored... I do not tell—all.