As it gets barren, thou has neither easily bygone nor defuncted from my relish, thus departing moi of my quill, as it aroused the exhaustion, reaching to a norm that extincts, gone with the drowning unsobering ale.
An epistle of quietus, simply picking up the curbs off moi in-skull, one mishap that promises a surrogating morrow sorrow afflictions, a tribulation to disguise of repentance.
Merci, to entire you, and all affections that is chiming in those thoughts.
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