In the wine cellar I learned historyNava Fader
sodden rag tattered lessons of slurred maroon deep slumbers. She’s the gut to blame it on. Straight to the stars. Four fingers all points. Deep in the cloven pine fisted notched and wasting for this? Fauna sheds itself to sleep. Skin mottled and mul- berry the year ages. This particular alignment astrologers slept and traced with chyrsalised eyes. The end.
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