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Atop a piano wire frame and misplaced infatuation, I stare into those bleak eyes, trying to elicit life from pieces of glass. The smell of passion and rotting flesh is a post-mortem tribute to immortality. Cadavers can't say no.
Atop a piano wire frame and misplaced infatuation, I stare into those bleak eyes, trying to elicit life from pieces of glass. The smell of passion and rotting flesh is a post-mortem tribute to immortality. Cadavers can't say no.
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