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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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Il n’existe pas, le vent, the wind, succulent purge into my lung,
Tarnished target for fiery arrow, artery eaten and stung. Il n’existe pas, le ciel avec des etoiles brillantes, leftovers now, Strangled necklines, choked lives, lovers knew-how. Il n’existe pas, le champ avec des fleurs sauvages, savaged Butcherly in the reaper’s blade, Van Gogh’s… ravaged. Il n’existe pas, le soleil du matin, coin of paper and straw, Cuneiformique splatter of ink, pungent and raw. Il n’existe pas, l’arc en ciel, a guillotine with metal embrace Shredding my life into discolored ice, impossible to replace. Il n’existe pas.
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