As i lay contemplating my ingestion at the hands of Ye Lad of Fort Frown, Pallid Lamb of Frown Pasture, I realized that I was alone. The lad handers of my recent sand handing salmon hand, sand in hand astride we strode, by the sea, he and I, that lake of common blindungsroman we swam, swam handing our salmondary hand lands. He was gone. Tyra Banks was gone. These bland hands now were blaming my glands for handling themselves so poorly. By passing out, or phase-grazing on the green grass of frowning space faces, my heart was sliced by those garden variety blades.
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