In a field of yesterday's wood atop the team of honey dew blasts, where the sunshine withers the needle soup pie and the llama doesn't forget to die, I drank a heart above the breach in a wine flap grant of hungry drawings heap. But all for bad pig's deans, in a hump of spit on a flag, yet grit, came the Doll of Fortune in a red and rainy car, shining like you can't on a simple beef jerky.
Published by Steven Jacob Borthick
I'm 21 and I'm happy being me. View profile
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