This isn't magic. And panpsychic cosmos don't think I am reasonable.
777 jackpot. My ship as come in. I Win.
All of the electrons gather inside her in circuitry flow. Augmented by bends and streets that get narrow. The signs are written by the words they know. Stopping, twerking, tattooing, referring publicly to blow. The excitement is felt. It brings some much joy and others get annoyed. However this isn't a party. And everyone got lied to.
Goofy and Pluto should get divorced.
First, everything magic go away. These words are not wonderful. I can't get none.
Lucky streak extended.
Anything and everything is fortunately bending.
There's a lot of ways to crowd around my clam.
Coming around, peering around, making yourself quiet and sticking around me in town.
There's a tunnel I like to go, now it's popular because of, you know.
I guess being lonely isn't lonesome enough.
So many people, and I just wanna dance and do stuff.
I'm just a punk trying my best to flit in.
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