its not a squirel

it’s often said that we are men who break into a thousand ends.  Quivering shivering sputtering drivelling.  Living lofty lies laughing lewdly as we die!  Cast a thousand stones throughout the great ship shifts and lifts about a rift.  A place of bacon people fakin’ any semblence of love awakened.  In other words, hold my hand.  In other words, fly me to the sun.

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