The cold quietness of the night is when this loneliness
sparks its incorruptible roister of self-existent misery;
there is no quarter of the length from whence this
torrent and chronic invasion cometh to pass, so, I
welter alone through this hellish
Mo, I don’t kite conspiracies, nor bake noon blue apples, and I haven’t set one foot through the gates of the Chapel Perilous, yet, I’d ve...
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