Nic Chagall, we knew your wiles, tambour glaring, cloying smile, he parted the hair of the sleeping child and whisked the curtains closed fast and impartially. A shallow breath swam in small heaves from the child, docility amidst Nic’s frenetic fretting. Nic can taste the copper penny sheen of autumn’s air as the door slams shut behind them, he has blood on his mind, adrenochrome in his glands, and a desire to remain young forever, to release another record as impactful as Firewire. He will do whatever it takes.
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