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shores of appocalypse divided by a mole. my feet are standing on a placenta of innocence and i am wavering with the wind of fishbones. we all see through lying wales that sell as pigmentation. we all need to know. without it there is no it, only multiple It's and sun-burned faces like sand-paper that touches the hanging gardens of proliferated Eden or conglomerated siluettes of mice and versa.
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