The piano is a string instrument. And tomorrow you wake knowing the precise calculus of those who spray perfume and move into it as if into new light. Still, the people are ugly and the Lord is sad. You cannot avoid shaving and watching the white flowers float to the bottom of the cup. For all you care, a thousand triggers are posing as white
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your writing is so trippy.
i love it. i look forward to your posts everytime.
thanks and keep up the good work.
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