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ePaper created 2013-10-09, 06:36:00 | version 1.25.20
194 Mama, dead Mama. With a pile of books & a pile of magazines in a corner. A pile for dirt, conceptual as it is. Conceptual as the thrashing goes. Maybe your dreams are nothing but dirt & eggs. I want the eggs to wash me face by face. And dirt. How to triple a fan whose head lays just so. Whose head is a guest of whisper.