Let them have it; it's theirs
Beauty goes out of the world and it's only the beating of flesh that fills the air. It's only the moaning of some whore made good by the bank balance of a richer man. Let them bang on at it. Let the flesh smells rot the air. As for this withering part of the tree, As for me: I will enjoy the last rays of the sun. People are such a disappointment.
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