Bloom 61616

And so we see, wrapped in ink and paper thin, the eternal flower of the mountain unwithered and still grasping to the knuckles the spring from which burst the writhing stew that spread from sea to sea to summit to moon and, with meat visions sizzling under elegant skull, the old mother (but how young her voice!), still dreaming in sheets made wet with human dew, cries once more Yes.

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