The woodbine weeps like a lesion. Z...
The woodbine weeps like a lesion. Zorba in her lots hands me a sickle feather. She rehearses me to rid the cock of his punch. His prim. In the augmented shimmy of a late spring dusk I descry outlined clearly the roguehair in Zorba's narrow chin. She gesticulates with the coke bottle. To the bottle She angles
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