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@voidindevoid
Hello, voidindevoid🥰! Do you like home videos 🥰?
Full video and others >> WATCH THE VIDEO <<
🥰🥰🥰🥰
#sexy
Fortunately; NO.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Just a random follower, but I've been reading your writings and I have to say, this is awesome!
Hi, thankyou so much "random follower". i love your blog too🎀
what kind of satiation do hearts long for? the heart is unsettled in public, in loneliness. what is it searching for? and why it is not ready to settle for what i find? what does it want? to break out of my ribs? as hard as it beats on slights. it just wants violence for me. blood and ruin. it likes to thud hearty loud so i know it's there. it's got violence on it's mind, i tell you hearts are gonna kill us all.
"how can i care for you? when all my life i haven't even cared for myself. it gets tiring, my hands fold into themselves. everytime you tell me something you want of me, it leaves me a little hopeless. my fingers they tremble with intimidation of something they can't hold down or very well grasp. i cannot go any further, my bones are shrinking, i have to look out for myself too, i can't carry your heavy solemn letters anymore, i have to burn them, throw them out, shred them to spare my sanity"
it is too much, lightly having strong coffee near window in pouring rain, wearing plain cosy beige sweaters, listening to melancholic slow pacing music , lying on bed for days reading the same book, contemplating small encounters, leaving things in the middle; being too vulnerable too soon, feeling an enormous desire to run out and experience all things, yet the yearning for safety of four walls. Small vivid, lucid dreams. Slight downpours of rain, that still allow you to go for a walk. Standing on lonely footpaths watching cars hum through rain. Just being aware of all the senses. it is too much.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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if i scream and scream really hard,
Will anyone from town run towards?
My shattered flower pot in the rubble,
The way, the roads filled with troubles.
And if i scream tearing my throat apart.
Will anyone run to fetch me new flowers?
As grown as they were before destruction.
Filled with purity, hope and blooming.
When the fires out there were not as booming.
Or will i scream and fall back dead?
Into this mess of corpses that lies ahead?
Soft silk sheets, lighting candles, chocolate and handwritten letters, drizzling rain and cosy beds. Being in complete harmony with yourself, aware. Knowing what you are, and being in settlement with it. Satiated. Doing without expecting. Being. Existing with the essence.
Why do we get so tangled into mess?
Too chaotic to decipher,
All this looming happiness.
Each day, each minute, each breath.
Why we feel at loss always?
When all we had, was nothing firsthand.
Is it the fear of losing speaking?
Or all the relations are always at stake?
But you know, you lived and lived really well.
When with all your anxieties you still have beauty to defend.
And does that count if no power you withhold?
When your vulnerabilities keep you afloat.
At the end of the day I am grateful for all,
The anxieties, the blessings, the love, the frauds.
Whores and silk, mud and milk.
Men and beds, Weddings and deaths.
Love and sin, anonymity and kin.
Whore houses and orgies, a sin.
You stay a night; anonymity. It's fine.
The sheets are silk where you sleep with her.
Her body is mud when you hold her.
She is unsteady, you hold her still
You feel empowered in her weakened shins.
And then fill her with your poisnous filth.
You hold her steady, her shaking subsides.
You are a hero; clean, she contains all your filth.
So what if i broke down in the middle?
And laid down on the roads to solve my riddles?
So what that all my nerves came abreast,
And took all my faculties in arrest.
So what if it got tough along lines?
And along those roads i lost my mind?
So what if the world isn't built for us?
We can look up, and pretend dead.
So what if there are no poems out today.
We can count on tomorrows instead.
So what if all these days have been heavy?
We can disarm, be humane and unsteady.

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Who, if I screamed out, would hear me amongst the hierarchies of angels? And if one suddenly did take me to his heart: I would perish from his stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but the onset of terror we’re still just able to bear, and we admire it so because it calmly disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrifying.
Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. Galway Kinnell and Hannah Liebnell
I have wrestled with the angel and I am stained with light and I have no shame.
Mary Oliver
Did you ever notice how in the bible, when God needed to punish someone, or make an example, or whenever God needed a killing, he sent an angel? Did you ever wonder what a creature like that must be like?
Thomas Daggett
How lonely to be something that nothing wants to kill.
Jeremy Radin
I was a winged obsessive, my moonlit feathers were paper. I lived hardly at all among men and women;
I spoke only to angels.
Louise Glück
Then an angel of the Lord appeared to him, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. When Zechariah saw him, he was startled and was gripped with fear. But the angel said to him: “Do not be afraid — ”
Luke 1:11-13
inch by inch i am balancing a flood in me
She thought it was the the misfortune of the poetry, to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could estimate it truly, were the very feelings who ought to taste it but sparingly.
“I defeated the marble and made it ductile, like wax ...”
— Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
A wet road in rainy Paris, you in your brown jacket, me in my black turtleneck. Without umbrella. Rushing to a small coffee shop nearby. Our classics in our hands. Our bags on our shoulders. Two youths. Immersing in the rain. We go inside the small cozy cafe. Dripping. Sit across. You give me your jacket. I don't take it. I don't want you to be cold. We discuss our books. I tell you about Jane Austen; fragility and femininity. You tell me about Dostoevsky; brutality and murder. Our coffees arrive. We wait for the rain to stop and head towards nearest museum.