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moody faint thumping from upstairs

makes my teeth hot. intimidation

at its finest. you’re on the warpath,

on your irksome, doing donuts in

the Pantheon: piercing. knock yourself

out bud. just let me go back to my

serene hutment or my ticker will sink

all the way through my Timbs. the

vexation of the responsibility of

communication overplumbed my

endurance, my composure. i don’t

fancy folks, namely only characters.

Dominus

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