I want an explosive Peking symphony for my plopping cockney pals, a biology of Yule styles that Greek fleece ogles, Bohemia teethes, moths hatch as I pee. I quit: in the mussy dun caption is poison. Woo in a doorway, owing theology, untidy mute hit lookout. Sad toys went iron hue. Without iamb, hoodwink kin. I ate up quaint Swiss editors.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Peking symphony
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