These past 122 hours: a new year. Cliché, cliché. A drink for the Queen; a look for the scene. Her lapse esoteric and uncertainty floods the décor. I guess it's alright to detach. Don't we need it? The disease that cures us. You stop slipping, do I want to hold on? Ideal demeanor begets lies and pleasing insecurity. Hidden meaning? The plight of
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