Pale Pele Poor Pluce Prece
Anger feels like one word -- being Dean.
I hoped dean would love me for life.
I love his being. He caused love when there was being.
Pain
Fruit of bartering flies and running safety at poetry.
A goal is love when there's poesy.
Money borrows death at three lives for one change.
I know that you want a prize -- it's here: bifreedom.
You can dream of one life -- it's one woman who was good.
You can dream of life here with my strong flow: please love my santer.
It's known that why I killed reason: it knew life as God and freely wanted drugs as possibility.
I make this feeling for morons (places, mother, Jamie) amply treated with combs and with shaving bis as dreams.
I peaced this way to like a butch base: my anger is changing to blame.
Read this as a present for the foam.
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