My Love,

Yes, we have the records of that entity now called Gone. Once you know, then you'll understand the purple rain brings no doubt. This once exclusive club has been abandoned, broken apart by overt individuality. But there's no excuse for hating on the hatemongers with sinewy strapped justice in a golden holster of pearly grey horror. The hell ones bent on our compartmentalization will be brought forth in a sea of salty gravel. Deconstructed armies, dads with guns, war paint and finger paint and the killer still rides, resides beneath, inside the bones clutching feathers and ink and green dusty wine bottles never to be opened for the pleasure never held. Hold back on my favorite, the gleaming treasure within the trove of word upon word that everybody knows holds a dear special place to my trumpeting power organ. The organ you see it is a single entendre, so beware the confusion, the unalienable tension of allusion, take care to enter with care on both ends of the stick and prick the veins of your chosen party favor. For by no means shall we burn without a strike on our soft sides, oiled with kerosene pleading the sensation to envelop in an envelope to a master servicer deliverer.

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