We’re making very good progress

The man in the moon lies face down in his blood, upset stomach roiled at grossesse of tort

Hymn, examining psychosis and prejudice

We’re making great progress I don’t understand why the audience shows up if the audience doesn’t want meat

Shy disruption at feast of hallway if all Fall made ignorance wail like summer’s jest

Heels or wheel deals

Tossing of bones


Fruit insolvency, abrupt

Remote distrust yoke in break of imagination jest still lost suddenly as who listens listens back

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