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The moths come to burn as they please. Nettling at my window. The dumb garden of them. Pressed exclusively against the glass. To be unheld + unknown. Floored by yourself. Every single time. |
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The moths come to burn as they please. Nettling at my window. The dumb garden of them. Pressed exclusively against the glass. To be unheld + unknown. Floored by yourself. Every single time. |
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