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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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