{An evening of utmost conflagration}
More porridge, please. Now filleth my cup and runneth over to the store for more ice, attacking quadrapedestrians as needed. Oh, how like a smitten candle is that ostentatious fellow who bemoans all that is lopsided - but such is the life of a pendecahedragonal nonagon. To be attached in spurts, that is where the truth lies. To be attacked by smurfs, that is why a dove cries. All this is mere carnauba wax, wax in the face of the unknown. Find frogs fascinating or don’t, it makes little difference. Just don’t expect to come wobbling around looking for an inner ear replacement after the factories have all gone home. This is where the air errs most erroneously, you see. We create so much nothing that it’s hard to be.
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