The meat has clicked all across these sagey flats, stood warm with a mild itching in the hair filter.
Their tail spread, a full-body sweat, heavier-than-air broadcast, markers of which we get plentiful traces.
This fruit was conscious on the vine, the apple of our mouth, ignoble for the word prey, yet not a weed,
Answered back a sound only comprehensible as evolution's plan to rejoin a perp from beyond the plate.
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