***
my throat is ill-suited to the demands of my script, straining with the force of
bottle rockets and jelly beans, the relative tell of my irregular heart that beats
not with mumurs but with shouts and houlls and groulls! (my tale is but for
to win/and nothing for reproving of sin; i am a vicious man/but i can tell a
moral tale). today i am not a dusty musty autumnal mumble, non. i am the
simplicity of movement and effect. i am a churning/a burning, so here we
go
***
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