In the distance of a dream, beneath a dark obsidian rainbow with a spoonful of a tempest, and a bowling of the thunder. As autumn chilled at my elbow and my pen dried up, my old fingers grasp, the Holy Grail of the berries inkwell. Giving up to the dust in the pot, and feeling your zephyr breath with a specter's entice, as your long fingers saunter. Over my shadow as we make love,
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