Periodically, I make a coordinated effort to resurface from the silt of frozen tides. I do not break the ice. I melt the ice. I breathe tonal fogs and dream of feathercats to feed my inspiration.
Our generation, despite rumors to the contrary, is not lost. We segue into newer kisses. We touch, figure, adapt, initiate, explore and relax. We can be slippery and be seen while being the scene.
We can go underground and dance with dozens, then alone. Then walk away.
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