Angered by his upbringing, the dander-coated man flung sprinkles of sprain and lanolin at each passing hux. Lamps would bough, fleas would clamp up, and dates would do sea cucumber routines and become soft like fresh bowls of curd, or so he would imagine. Instead, really, the map led nowhere but a HI-point. Glissando tipping and fifteen percentage poises latter, the former abatement of ladder-balm and shiv cloister meant liters at the podium, ugly bags of water atop each ankle, dancing the hugging whole and replacing images with more advanced options. And you?
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