To the mother vol-
cano, there is no hu-
nting; the food kill
itself and jump in
your mouth. Are
you in? Now that we
have centuries of da-
ta we find we're rare-
ly wrong. We want no-
t only to record but al-
so guide the
metamorphosis of yor
distruck-shone.
Sad Poems: Temporary Conditions
3 hours ago
Pharm-Supply bastards!
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