A flitting bird catches flight, whilst drunken and disorderly individuals aimlessly reminisce way back down below about the good ‘ol days – eagerly abstracted by the height of the stretching sunlight, sky; just how might we manage to miraculously handle some of the undeniably invaluable things: items upon a listless list of enviably invisible enigmatic portrayal, and then some of them shall advantageously cry: “why, oh my … the barbwired writing is about to open its own very eyes – inordinately wise, wide working words of epically inundated wonder … some of Them!” Though never too many people will listen

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