The boy looks into Mugwump eyes blank as obsidian mirrors, pools of black blood, glory holes in a toilet wall closing on the Last Erection.
So does hope spring from the burning passions, which consume their home and themselves—so does it wander through the future, making its own charmed path—and so does it evanish away: lost in the horizon, it grows at last too faint for outline.
I'm late home for the fourth time this week; my mate will really roast me this time.
the theatre is predominated by the usual greyheads (average age one hundred)
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