You watch the clock, the typical tick scratches the sides of the brain.
This thing. This thing called time.
A picture frame, the artists you seek to blame.
Dark martini, no fucking lime.
It is not the loves that you proclaim, but the true creations of disdain.
A telephone ring, a partner in crime, the key to the line.
Assign, Refine, Confine.
This thing. This thing.
What a fucking linguistic string.
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