Created on Aug 13, 1997.
The leers of the dancing skampering death's head skull, which had suddenly arisen from a settee made of day-old souffles, made me feel utterly exposed to bubbling up from the claws of darkness the corporatedesignerwhore asks . . . what time is love ? Half past affection. . . . I catch a whiff of the same old song-and-dance, and in my eyes there are fragments of my last misconception.
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