The old paint that scarred my bedroom door (which no longer exists)
reminds the people of Independent Holland, with a whisper not a shout,
of my deceased Saint Isabel cross hatch. It wasn't for nothing that all my
circling appropriateness is strangled in the sleep of Saints. What inside
knowledge will it require to loosen a seed from the inside with a pattern
of silk scarves and a motion not resembling scattering leaves of their gust
whore of Tidy Bowl Imperialism? You have my wind and she takes her lunch
out in the Old System's flaws and not one individual blinks to forward the
Hazelwitch panel.
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