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i'm not entirely sure what this is.
dom mouth
holycydonia
 The gutter wounds bled rats, running from static vans that dug their treads and slid the walls of their roads.
The lady restricting movement with the tightening of her eyes, pressed against the window tied up on display over shuddering fly paper, lining me with offer and leaflet paste.
Dug at x traced by her jerking copper hands, found not riches but contracted, rasping matter with fur coats caught luckily by the collar, prickled sensory hair as it was gushing through the drainage system.
He thrashed with energy brandishing an absence of despondency, before consuming him, let him star in his own show, of his own. For the scales were already outdating, the laws and with a secure hold on my throat, do not forget their enthusiasm.
The viewing figures were given the all clear, and news of this he smiled out of his chair, festering reluctances took priority and the erasure of the strings was neglected, the team rule knifed and the old juice batteries replenished.
Moving slowly in this dance of despair, with feet at war and eyes on each other, appalling attempts at grasping air. With the killer instinct of a mother lures him into her comforting lair. Pray and praised for putting up a fight, confessed that well earned trust tastes better. The thought he’d survive he might aswell saved his breath for later that night.
When many legs and eyes embraced him tight and wrapped him in a rag, he had no choice, but to simply let her crave the decisive bite.
Widows are not renowned for their teeth, the sting does the damage instead, preserves the insides for future greed. They don’t leave their main course red, they prefer them numb and sweet, kept somewhere between alive and dead.
With his last few breaths, he muttered his last words,
“Would you take the time to,
sit and talk.
For me to tell you what my,
eyes have seen.
The dark that scrapes the hope away,
compensates with despair.”

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