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up rises his arm to
the stony nape how frost-biting there why are you scratching there? she laughs (without noticing his concrete face reinforced with painful spanners) everything’s a puffery ad: even the god’s legs and the goddess’s nails noisy wreathes unfurl under windows two silence–filled bags hardly enough for a burial so at least his arm could escape hoisting its bust on the uppermost shelf of the paradise
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