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Tales of Talisman

 And the tentacles reached neurasthenic levels of projection as the question was asked. Darksome skies compounded the adventure of looking here. Rains smeared bellicose rejection patterns with pluperfect condiments of rationale. Yet again, the tentacles stretched to the square root of oblivion, tho upon a cozy framework, and tightness reigned. The urgent maw cornered a new meaning, which extended the tentacles further. A scream as of a multiplied siren lurks in the cream puff of the attendant officer. Shots were shot, as logic would expect. Heroism proves not always the same moose. People are involved. The tentacles stretch cancellation to its almost logical extreme. The maw could be industry, or just facts, or a prevalent aroma. Heroes the size of storks pour in. *In what?* the reader asks. The tentacles have no time for ambuscade, but industry remains. The children eyes open to relent and the lack thereof. People are involved but involvement cannot be a plan. Rain dazzles in the offing, but the offing refuses outright to remain. Here, then, the tentacles, as the story goes. Going includes no options.

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