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A Prom is a Wicked Entropy

The most necessary grows legs and improves to human interaction. It works wings into conversation without allowing what. What grows fangs and dips fuel from tasty earth. We are ready to sleep.

Sleep causes antic rapture full of waves from Robert Mitchum and/or Audrey Hepburn. Waiting for farms and wind and tall trees while pop psychology wraps ferment. A slope of information rises above the baseline information of what we have done. Someone is 19 years old, and told to be 19.

Lax streets inquire regiment, with minty freshness. And it could resolve for folks that, circumscribed and around the neighbourhood, someone did something.

Something is so much, inclusive and unbending. We could tread on nominal traits and factoids, as a bluster massacre occurs. People die and aren't finished. People kill and are not finished. This is an expression of solemn doubt. What is the franchise?

Tears seep savour, place names grow into world. Who are the what?

A poem is a cage for registry, language in a tunnel toward a light that gabbles with words. Why do tunnels gabble with words? Plopping process exceeds, pronouns explain direction.

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