Without a grim visage you will parlay a mere sconce into a bountiful replay of scenes from a life in undersea dioramas. They will keep you involved while plotting to sever your last connection to a fecund encyclical of our notions within trailblazing hydration regimens to prevent a dustage situation in fossilized lions half your girth. Now the blot will echo our special transition team as they tear into a wanton tragisty of gumbs-to-the-fore. And you may not like what they tell you. But you can count on one (stinking) thing: they will never pull your hat into a sleeve stuffed with plasmic numerals. That would be too much. And you know it. Be still. It won't be long. Unless it is. Oy.
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