Near Matches
Ignore Exact
Everything
2
The last suit I wear has no pockets
The end is always the same: two adjacent beach chairs, two hands holding each other.
You love these machines. These machines are dead: a love story.
If we could build things out of concepts, I'd have pants made of lust
in which lead gliders freeze against the sun for 0981 seconds of Earth-shattering beauty
Mark Twain on masturbation
Exsanguineous
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