5/2/2026, 9:03:26 PMA Passerby-er I am. To relook the span of time that might then consume a base to coupe. A book racked before the paperback... I feel I have been challenged, to peak at this very title, to find its treasures, become awoke, the contents then surly a parted press, as I unfurl a mess. These flowers in the bloom, an embargoed embed, for what might be seen instead... A story as sought, or is it all, for naught, a bleak shore of misdirected measures? Down the street I go, passing by the mystical crates below. Would the span of time tell of a couple that might, even, miss a measure of this inward bargain. To seek of a need to barge, for, the barley is carried away, hidden, the contents that speak any might at all? To revisit this pressed title, would impress the minds of the theater bound, I tell, sit-around, collect the marks o' this very merit.
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