I wander through this wind swept land..... a tourist and a voyeur.... neither bitter or vengeful, empty of reason, a recluse without a language for redemption in a perennial state of last call. You should have left hours ago start the voices, fighting with dignity, dancing with grace, a lavender swan song of pity and aged whiskey. Howl at the moon proud soldier, your work here is alive, it's ever vigilant, In the House of the Martyr Saint.


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