Fallen men dance with treasured souls in our dance halls. The content and criminals burn through floors while the painters and soldiers loop-de-doo. We are the haven of shattered dreams brewed and seeped in desperate pleas to find something beautiful and true. The sense nonsensical and boring baseline a barely contained titillation over flowing with fantastic cries and moans of ecstasy.
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A Place of Stuff and Blogs and Musings and ,,,
AuthorI am the person who writes in the blog space to the left. I guess I do all the place of stuff stuff... Archives
November 2017
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