I have these itchy knuckles and I need to develop some new thirty-six exposured philosophies about the sky and I have to juxtapose my preconceptions against my non-existent ankle-scar and it is almost time to return to the cavernous folds of our bed's clouds.
Regional rule has passed me over, he thinks as he unrolls the Scotch tape to its definitive end, and the era of the self arose. Unnecessary words, a false joining of thoughts, really. Windows sigh open and lucidity appears and the old toaster has scorched his bagel gloriously.
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