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I still recall that pallid silhouette shifting about the moonlit wisp, shudders as reflected, now turned refraction in the twilight of my steely visage. The ribs upon your exposed flank like the lulling hills of supple youth, unblemished by the sun's touch for the night to kiss forthwith and for the rapacious exhalation of memory, alone.
And then we did it in the dirtbox.
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There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
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