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    The Essence of Fucking Glad

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    Hello, my closest. I can tell you, I can persuade you, I can calculate my best hour for you, now that you're drifting in the fog of memory like a ghost ship with its siren song.

    Or more so, when the sun sets again and beckons, the surfers head to the beach. Everything goes its own way, the more gypsy the more diffuse a unique piece from the nomad ring game.

    Solar flakes ring out my day, the spring wind, the Canarian fever, the chimneys of passion are a piece of the puzzle of the maelstrom in which I find myself barely capable of playing doctor. Antonin Artaud's Theater of Cruelty and Sartre's God of Carnage wait and scratch under palm trees.

    Everything is happy when the pussy tastes good, when existence awakens itself anew.

    So we collect the hopes, the garbage on the beaches is more numerous than the turtle eggs, decadent last century, how I will miss you.

    But before, but for a long time and without ceasing, I want to kiss you, salty, sweet Sandoka, sometimes as a girl, sometimes as a wild man. I want to be your threesome and your poly family, I want to switch roles like your panties disappear from the clothesline in the kitchen wing of the military camp.

    I can see how you bring out all the colors of the world in this world, your skin glows with longing, your breath is like a discovery that other people make sense, IT would be worth marrying with the atoms of the outside.

    Salute the nights call, let us sail to Mexico, stay below deck until we get stranded wherever the currents take us, on this journey my poet's heart will beguile you.

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