Dear. I’m not. Writing a poem. Because I’m alienated. I’m a fresh surname. Obsessed figure. Without a rendezvous. At midnight. I enter a realm of reverie. And twist unreal fingers. Because bad luck is. An intricate state of mind and soul. Is Surrounded by. Crosswords.

 

Dear. I am. Depicting poems. Because. I’ve a name. You will figure out. Obsecrate. With whom is the rendezvous? Night is a middle. A realistic reverie entered. And really twisted he fingered in. because luck is. Bad state. Mindsoul. Crosswords surrounded by intricate states.

 

Dear. Am I? A poem? ‘Cause a name has? Out! Find it! Yes, the rendezvous… a midnight state intricate and luckily twisted by a surrounded mind and real soul in reverie entered. Crosswords?

 

Dear. You are a beautiful poem with a name finding out its way towards a real rendezvous where your fingers will twist the soul of a midnight crossword, surrounded by luck and reverie, and will intricate the bad minds of a cross depicted world state.

 

Dear… Do. Enter. The twist of a pre. liminary ultim.ate vaporous reason.

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