she hulks a honeyeater’s beak invades her ear canal – watch, the concrete’s too yeasty Cu Chi tunnels zipping and unzipping her wide, brown lands, for me. secrets churning, plenipotentiary dust risen against a burning will. the soil’s birthright lives a lucid death nothing to grow. We have rules, you know a Council for that a man with a chainsaw wondering where to go too much green just anywhere can’t say as i’ve seen it lately though whistle for the sheepdog, round-up such avarice and vice Zone 12, depiction C, sub-set 88B. fit me for a Form or two just to be precise in our total inexactitude. sus · tain · a · bil · i · ty, what was that, Luv? noun it wants filling out again the dog’s a bit fat to run.
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