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suitsmeveryfine
You are having your back room party tonight I can see. Since I have no possibility of going I want to hear about it afterwards at least. Disco on!
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poetmachine
I think I grow tensions like flowers in a wood where nobody goes. Each wound is perfect, encloses itself in a tiny imperceptible blossom, making pain. Pain is a flower like that one, like this one, like that one, like this one. -R. Creeley
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poetmachine
Disco Frisced Against the head of Morning come breaking . . . Along the floor a door, from where Bowie descended, our little suture
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