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Days of Yore

Here typing. No longer the rampant smoking fingers of days of yore. Nay. Fingers of lustlessness and anit-frolick. No frolicking fingers on the green keyboards of the great west. Just here prancing I guess you could call it or rumaging in the keyboard of my mind. The steed is dead. The warrior is wounded. It only takes an arrow, or a smoking ball o flame coming for your head. Yay. The listlessness seeps my body and produces black coals of death. Can you smell them. They are tart with bitterness and turpitude. All I need now is a knife in the back and all will return to normal. Who cares that here in the typing quandrant the woman are naked and typing and they are super models. Not me.... Not me..... No more. no more. All is gone to the spleen of my mind. Waiting to explode and spread it's mutiny on the horizon. Yay, yay, the horizon: she is dark.

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