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BE AT BAY AT A MOON-BAY Hear the screams of the rive-winged angels! We roam in dark timber of the found delusion where the trees made by decaying stuff of passing. We hear the strain of the suffering lifes instead of birdcall and I want to shock you to see that you live in the blister of your own delusion. Don’t forget the passing is streaming the depth of your soul by the mystification you have. Must try to wash the squalor! |
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