There, the front gate. Enemy made at last form shape substance and location.

I lost you countless times before I learned how to count then Ego, always the dreamer, willed me out of the mess before it could drown me. I heard London pass away in harmonic pandemonia that only a classical archetype might weave.

Every tense borne out of this worlds-realm juxtaposition slammed home with the hollow point Dad always knew would come seeking its due for letting him pass through the colonial clusterfuck lattice.

Now the rebounds, the far ends of the spectrum, and Aeneas on a suburban rampage would all have their superbowl moment.

Make or break?

It's aught but the last ten pounds for the tenth attempt.

Ain't gonna be this 4AM chill to crack my animal, cavernous, ignorance-ridden move.

The padlock slides open.

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