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glass winer

fate riddled damn things wriggle in the shadow

land
down beneath the ceremony oni melt their plans together
so we wait in holy doomed unison
using the only oil we blessed for now
and save (or) the soiled oil we blessed for the future pewters b/c we know that in the evening we still have them to anoint.

Anouncing now to the moon:
in the realm of real meal spiders the minor offer is held open to the termites of the contract. (who hunger in cloistered rye)
Actually its really a good deal.

doom for the motion, or corpus for the bottle.

the judge just beamed and held us in contempt.