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I’m not a window to your brain.
So why do we feel this stained?
As his wife repeats his name.
Some of those were wrong.
Over hills belong.
Life a comfort chore.
Unlike a turn out now.
I’m known to ride around
a varied vacant sound.
With your looks and my brains,
it’s a failure of things that we name.
What are phase of friendships for?
The greasy and undressed
make the same request.
A labour of like we test.
Edgeworth Johnstone 
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