Tonight our words are forming boundaries, coercing us into this silhouette of blatant fiction. It wavers. Oh, just then you threw your arms around me effectively inducing Looking Glass derived refractions.
So don't wait for us. The season's perfect. Hold on, be still. The shadow's coming. And we'll sing, we'll sing like murderers in choirs. When we shelter these infractions I'm in love. The curvature of prose completes us. There's no substance in our lungs.

But now this condescending grandeur will seize our rhetorical cries. I'm here my sweet Madeline. And write me off like I'm a child I've used up my newness in stride. I'm here my sweet Madeline. Because the infraction in decency accents your perception of what we imply, you fabricate your affections tonight. And your makeshift compassion's affectively placed when it suits you and their compliments seem to run dry. I'll be your default tonight. So take my kindness as a weakness; I am benign. But still I'll hold on. I'll hold on!
You are the consummate motion of dilated inhibitions. Improve your net worth by negating your constraints. You're the malevolent rupture in collective progression. I am your sense of achievement. I'm a fallback, I'm your failures, but you are the one I would die for.