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Open the Fuck You Papers, Children Are Your Dream

Your child is a loss in a sway of vibration waves. X, equipped with dread and smoke, confirms lack of entity (your poor kid). Our child is a rain in port calling. Your child, graded, is beat and brained, ours went with sweat to the dictate of season. Why are we paired against? Tosses of from toward there or that are wincing news of usual growth. We all are crowned and plain, like the words of evening. One even thing is like another. When we are great and exulted with the planned expanse, we say a great beginning is association. When we fail the strands and measures, dockets and crowns forbear. Your usual language is violin pining. You listened to the whining of the passion as it revved and processed, like people in a marsh. Did you feel the marsh water wetting your feet? Close inspection of the heartless plan confirms a mulct consideration. Present the name to the indicated person, your favourite slur. You boost downward when you have this dispatch. It was a person before you spoke, but you won the declaration.

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