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Can’t Sing. Can’t Dance.

The South Pole, land of peach and shaving cream. The North Pole, fun sunless bung. The creators of misery arrive, improving angst with measures of norm. This is the cleric’s realm, the idealist base, the ringing bell.

In season as the forces of good and evil stop to talk, boiling made frozen heart. Poetry becomes a synonym for something else. Metaphor breaches exactly right Republican, downwind the Democrat doubt. Free range chickens.

Inasperate the fertile words of snow and structure, kinds of population, miniseries to see. Ocular profile of the silly season behaves badly. Western culture has long positioned itself as distinct from Antony Gormley. It's time to rethink the purpose of misunderstood.

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