Like speech she with pink roses flows under phantom eras and garners frost along the way, never turning her head to even nod at robins fluttering in fog. I would say the memorization of oil spills churned somewhere, but it's hard to be sure when trembling hands shiver vision as well. Belting lugubrious lullabies in such a case is far from the plateau where she lived alone with people. Saturn's ice rings skated on a rink but no one agreed with that either. She vandalized the barriers by spray painting typeface and facing all types of perplexed stares and narrowed jawdrops. The mist in the midst of things was warmer, milkier, than she had expected. So she kept going. She kept believing in unbelieving, and the honeycomb followed with more than one queen.
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