17 lines
981 B
Plaintext
17 lines
981 B
Plaintext
OOK.PIK:
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Night; and a Dark Moon. Festoons. The Chocolate Chip Croissant [hereinafter
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refered to as `c/3'] resides, splend'drous, in state as it were, an aura of
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piquant expectancy filling the otherwise bleak landscape with a tenuous veil of
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diffuse rococco blandishments reminscent of a bygone Dali. Ruffling through
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the Power Grass, bleating Vaughn Williams anthems to Itself, The Sinuoid
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wreathes obliquely betwixt the ant-eaten AM-PM Mini Market soft-serve ice cream
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cone and the nether buttress upon seven of like which, the C/3 expresses
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inertia. To nothing in Particular, a Voice as a flocculent zephyr rises like
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heat on a New Mexico highway, mingling with distorted gospel cassettes and the
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plaintive honking burbles of Carlos "Spit-Key" Ayrton-Plinth, baring the naked
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soul of his Selmer alto saxophone upon the discriminate ear of the desert
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floor. "Spuck" It says.
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