Roses Are Red, All Else Is Just Complicated Comments

Woke up in the morning, be-buzzled by a strange comfort of an apparent artefact scent doffed upon my reality,
Without much tangle I drift from this tally graciously notched in a bubble of ego imagined in the emptiness of things.
I call onto what glory I find in this enigma. Comfort that tables glossy around a passim of reality.
Be it known, more deterioration befuddled with what dims extra care for the unseen, I remain close to sight still.
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