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February 10, 2012
Sleep, the fitful elixir of the warrior red, on the fever blisters rising in the blackest brightnesses, taunts the alchemy upon marshes thick and pungent of pert juices meant for intoxication of gods and the proper minister of the golden dawn in your own back yard barbecue. Those cooking shows really know how to grab ya, with the pliant meats of head assembled on the hot beds waiting for roofie dream drugs to muster favors from the stark identities nearly lost. One could write a cookbook or two and sell the proceeds in the red light district of loves' hottest nursery.