Sex After the Revolution | on

At some point all love is a wombat, denied. Not just a singular fur, but that dual experience like an impeller within a fine aquarium filter. We need to hurt, like bricks from weak mortar on high and they falling forcefully down — ‘You stupid bitch, you added the least amount of water’ and he gets slapped down into less than the Nile. But then goat climbs out some hole and rises in smoke yelling ‘Let them Fucking Die’, which the anti-christ is laughing hoping he can get a deal on a new Honda.

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