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Ling is the piece of puzzle that makes everything fit. Without her, the words would be unprotected. She is the smooth air coming out of your rest in bed, your anger throughout a senseless arguement. 

Her poems have no borders to intimacy, and she makes you feel like a bird to her lips, trying to fly away from reality, while she saves you of getting bored of balanced reactions. 

She will sing, recite, play her electric guitar against our impolsive negativity to accept that we are nothing more than softness. 

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