The fuchsia flowers decorating, celebrating your hours, prolongs the holding breathe that sours the last moments brilliance and though the speech might have caused considerable tears, to the ears of a loved one, “it was a beautiful occasion!” Remember the days spent grazing on the summer grass, sharing laughs, love so close you can be it. Though the arrow in his boot would tell short fashionable executions tales otherwise. Devious passion, the narrower of all the sad lines, whom is it that decides them to be wrong?

All along, they could get along but spit to the wind and time. A punk for steam, and gleams for a better told story. An ultimate and definite excuse, one ought to excuse the mess of the sty. Any bard would offer two singles just to join the collection, Henry with already too many fingerprints on the honey pot. Frame the entertainment humanly, the love train staining the painting from its lowly but accurately scored rating; three. It is much better this way. Be more than the nails holding the rails in place, honestly sweetheart we’re arriving not departing.

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