token. women.

all of the sun’s one
sudden comes as a bolt would. they’re reaching around
the desk and the wallpaper has closed in
on yours. there’s a price on the newmarket
fingers, and the pubs shut
teeth marks in east end lividity. what
means the ache. we wouldn’t ask if we
were you; or had your belly, or
walk. chuckling buckling
breakfast hips, that slip like
knuckles into fists. manu, now, backs down
on food; there is no need to roast
the word.

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