From the dead head of the Pumpkin,
seeds are just spit like fire!!!!
(I DEMAND YOU TO DO NOTHING.)
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
[F] [N] [G] [R] [S]
In between my fingers once relied the truth. No wings can be made with them. That which once was truth is now sand that belongs to no shore. And all this distance can be measured in bones.
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