the world is my oyster and every cliche becomes like a nightmare that gets in the way of opening precious after the flood of wellness and worries and swet, tears, and blood... now if you can make out the reason in rhyme and if you can transcend the space and the time and if you can laugh at the folly you are then maybe you belong here with your own star... the dichotomous nature of pickles and rice is mixed up with flavor in fire and ice not to expose every flaw in character but to beg the borrow and steal december...
it's coming, if only they knew... it's coming, and waiting for you...
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