Hours : wasted
basic beautiful life
i wonder how my elderly computer adjusts the speed of poetry
the epitome of sense-slippage; nothing is but what is not, and as soon as you have it, it's gone again.
marching into oblivion
what's the rush?
it all begins with a throwie
crush that D
@ DR. FOCTOR MANY TIMES MY MUSE HAS BEEN D, THE ETERNAL MUSE ONE MIGHT SAY
a muse d
I would've been there but my fur tends to get matted with most paints.
Toute la monde existe dans une boite.
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