Lean youth ravished leaves here a husk-shell, the fruit mere starch stains in the casket, residues by the rind, and perfumes that trophy on the air. That which teemed into the tongue tastes no more of tender days nor blushes with the rush of perfect red through delved russetvein. The Lust is liage atop a heavily purple bruise, the sabled gules of
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thanks for da feedback¬!
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