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7.11.2007
Tilt the Board
To wave on coming broach the tope with feeder z ones be clear of face, watch full of spacious under penned Bermuda in the squaline sauce of pop clipped sorghum baste all tall configuredly as haste makes tone a gone thing fingered to F# you smooth your way in to a crowd I shoulder this I feast on how inside the real trade is midsummer when the crooning faults its way to noon lone pilgrims white of shoulder when the room stays full the room so full of you
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It aint hot here in Dub, but 16 degrees, thick steel web of all enveloping cloud, rain mesh container and franhly shee, a bit of a shite summer for exterior sun, but not the inner light of divinity i seek to sing of, Love..
We're in the 40s here in the AZ desert, naturally (is that nature?) :)
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