This Is the LifeCate Peebles
We’re about to go all desperado & isolationist like Swiss bandits after a cocoa pocket-watch heist; land- locked peacefully, in any case, seven pounds of time and candy frowning in our squeezed palms. We are one day to another, goatish by the powder rooms. Sweet-toothed lummoxes, already spoiled by our yield. A foiled cuckoo stolen in Zurich makes its way to Milan via alpine express, nestled in the folds of ermine peltry; we write long letters to our mistresses in Haarlem who grow gaunt without our bon-bons. But no. We gentlemen are mere figments. We lie. This feint a mumble, the lone scrawl of a Mount Blanc on blank bedding. No cherry-whips tonight, no women or wit: a mere sleeper sick of one more sunk Adriatic night. How could we not persist?
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