In spite of your proverb, the hanging undertone within your conspiracy theory, she filled him with doubt as you presumably deserve a voice for the shit you’ve been spreading. Perforating the synchronisation in their behaviour it’s like waking up half stunned and mostly befuddled. Wonder, in his blunders, for fumbling numbers have cancelled his memory. Those banging mammories thrashed in the brashness of jäger fuelled memories, you’ve gained traction but you’re out of comfort, booze finally lifting the hunger from his eyes. Nursing, the wrath of unrecognised fancy, the devil dressed nakedly, patronising his identity, he’s vindictively met with a question: will you caress me some more?

The answer should always be no.

What d'ya think?

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