Forget me nots are planted to ensure a being is NEVER placed in a decrepit oubliette miles below the Earth’s surface; where the excrement permeates, and refuses to escape. The worst possible verses from Dante’s Inferno bloom through seeds of indecision, maniacal breath, or the blood that sticks to the surface of your skin. Washed, crimson flows clear. Is there redemption in our dreams — do we see an authenticity of spelunked realms; what does it mean? Every single desire can not be lived in the tactile flesh as postulated by Freud. Locked below the depths of the subconscious — unable to retrieve its truth — a concealed place that protects your brain from extreme trauma. Although most days it’s the heart that requires fortification. Which land would be ideal to reside, that of blood and honey, or one that affords verity. Desire resides in dreams for purpose of self-preservation, always to release, to allow the animal to let go of I’ll fated inhibitions. Humans are primal beings; the debate over this issue the subconscious must remain in Pandora’s Box, a caged animal with no escape. Do you think any human can genuinely contend with the authentic darkness of another? An ache so real the vibrations could shatter bone. Or, stifle and forever remain the keeper of your secrets?

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