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Prime time gypsy of adultery.

Protestant separatist. Basque flapper with a desire for the truth. Please understand me: my frankness was my weakness, the first amphibious sidecar in the rental classifieds. On the engine's flank was an armored angel, Charlie's Angel heading full speed towards Lagos, Seven Year Itch, bush without a dog. I jump out (but does my heel catch on the piece of pedal?), I no longer drown, I don't wag my tail or roll without takeoff gas. I don't look back. I warn and prophesy with my crystal ball that watches real soap operas and my blue-gold cloak heavier than air. I don't look back and get out of the way because this is a sweep: sharp claws, and leggy.

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