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2002-01-30 - 9:39 PM

The part where babbling into nonsense is norm

Seven lop-sided revolutions per minute, a brimstone blacklight, fishhook fission, or an octagon alias. A traffic light kingdom with swelling stacatto imagery. Obsolete tangy precognition, an immutable periscope with its own blackjack algebra. Now in stereo! A sudden stanzaa in a broken resurection, an orange checkmate vector on a philharmonic cicatrix. Enfold defold the resonant temple and unravel the swelling sulton lore. What diaphonous symmetry, she exclaimed, and she had a neon nickname. Clang breathes little robots. Graphic time suds, bandsaw mimic. Pregnant with razorblades and tiger phosphor for a patterned wanderer. Arm yourself with a silver shampoo ballad and decipher the tornado. A precision simile and a speckled conjecture unite to form a firearm objection. A dull suicide percipitate and a purple tear drop symmetry. Distort theyself until nothing is left but a diary fissure.

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