Angels are like fuck off, oh my god. Weak sanctity blurts oh, the trials. We fly by natural right, thinking big time. The marble of awful correct crows reminds testimony, like Apple Off a tree forever, and forever ever. Dave Foofighter,, more public nothing, makes nice midnight and John Ashbery is still poet forever. Still as a dead poet, thanks for nothingness. Angels are like oh so wait.
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