I can hardly stay in my solid color blocks, anymore, when the atmosphere lifts like this. See, the edges of me, the waxy black cray-pas outlines, are smearing out all blurred into your words, and all this dizzy, spinning illustration of the sky. If you will draw me out in the sun like this, you can be sure of one thing: I will melt under that, and color the clouds like dragons. I will streak and swell them, turn them carnival cartwheel colored for you, every last one.
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