One can run, zero has nowhere to hide. To have none’s the boon, much is for buffoons. Diminished by return, I entered space bars. Drunk oxygen fiends find the delightful toxic, while oeuvres can’t bloom. Limitation might be a product of culture; it refuses sale. Fungibility truncates existence by treasury pleasure measure meaning manners, in a manor, won’t matter to rat patter: rhythm won’t rhyme with excess.
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