My intense intents indent the bubbles
My intense intents indent the bubbles of possibles, at times a severe pop reports a part of the future is dropped, or its dilatory delivery retreats with reproach from my untimely approach, hissing away escapadely.
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The rain comes down on nylon lines as nylon rain, each fiber-optic strand a light shine- shrine, and a vibrating way.
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A rank of clouds serried and clothespinned up which like a flock shocked by a sudden pop scatter in a swivet break up. Passion Contents
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