oldies in the snow. the welsh border is wretched with little and big dogs of unbearable greatness. heavy-chested thanksgiving, blame anything: the weather, the cars on the other side of the street, all my lundndry tumbling in thick-lathered circles is probably making more progress than me.
come on, thick-eyed morning, sharpen your blades. if time waits for no man he'll be goddamned before he'll take this off a woman
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