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I’ve been munching on worried ‘dream wisdom’, it’s been a hot hot summer waiting for that ‘kiss kiss’ of shaken death cool off cool down sack of accomplishment to burst open like looted necessities product of some heartless pillaging… though i know, much like the fab four on the yellow brick road, that sack of treasure, albeit enticing, contains no heart and soul, no mind (mine left hours ago). I decided when kiss kiss didn’t to instead seek a new voice of presentation, to serve as precedent to unaskedfor presence of presents, voluminously wicked (o sweet One), carry on gracefully, I don’t need that sack of shit, kiss kiss, don’t need your lengthy xplanations or xpositions, not in this time of garbo art or lonely copulation or traded wisdoms, not know way know how. Crappy investment, stinks of bile n piss, still hot as shit, still no kiss,- and o? it’s started to rain now. Still hot as a spring, as promised like an empty gesture. No use in this, baby glam. Clamor on.