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1913issue6online

193 chance”. “Fake me!” screams a crow as it flies overhead. How tumbling the tumble she took. My love My love confessed a drop of parsley water to nothing but a readers’ aside. I rendered aside whatever was said to me. THERE IS A MORAL How can tangles grow barren barrack by barrack when we live amidst such mustiness, growing shamans in our stomachs hounding for more much more love?

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