mid April 2k Upon returning from his Mexican sabbatical, No sooner had the artist let go his grin, like a piece
of bad yellow tail the spirit of Tweeter's basement reentered him. When
he asked, "Who sent for you?" She answered with her thumb.
He offered her his hand; she took him by the arm. Attempting to preserve the swelling, Sara of Ipanema anoints undeserving strangers. However, the precious ointment from her lavender jar could not penetrate the artist. Together they are seperate. His scar remains hidden deep in the lining of his skin. Gnashing and weeping she's not feeling his pain. Premature life is its own ransom.
"He bleeds only for his art. I love only for forgiveness." "You'll love the way that she moves her hips. |
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