You live in a died of obscurities where you have field beneath the strangeness of your morality, yet, still seems to encumber the idea of factual (fractioned) evidence behind blatant vaunting of amour propre that only comes off as discreet in your "jagged, skewed, and isolated" projected matrix when, in fact, it's the most squared and neatly folded linen-textiles. Facile you are. But to me, the angel, it's okay. The angel will consider perpetuating you, even if it is against morals. (Neither cruelty nor kindness will influence the transit of the angel's verdict.) And, perhaps, the delusion of godhead soothes you with an old tear-soaked pillow from many purple skies ago, for you are the only one to break the poison-green chains of your own mind. Self-reflection does not imbrue you (with no follies), for there is no self to reflect on due to—not constant hammerings of your ego—the lack of introspective ability to see your body as fuel to a fire. In conclusion of that one fracture alone shows the vast difference between the bedroom door (Uranus/Saturn) and the bathroom door (Mercury/Mars)—if one were to take it literally, anyway. Almost nothing can not never be a stretch (do I mean stench?) of you, since three negatives means it is a lie; and it is all revolving around the sun-lighted Twin, whilst the other Twin is never going below the twelfth house—forests this idea of shallowness and this idea to never drive to the next town. So, please, end this.
Luminaries; girlhood is a synonym of godhood, celestial, sanctitiy