filled with images rolling like bird severy wet edge finds moldy old spot savory heart always yearning whatnot but block not, for what she heard: from the beginning it was a hot spot the herb gardens had such fair aroma they even warded off sinister insect come what may or come what not she saw her face turn in pools Water from when songs Dove first were sung the flavour of Morning turned a mist and by midday summer autumns to Fall for the Byline of winters all-in-all draw Mine perfect particulars of rot -self of heinous veracity plucks lot appalled and obliged, disfigured bumbling buffoon, grasps at threads of life with sausage-like fingers crippling.
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