She has come, she has come. Oh why? In hell we Breath out of tubes of Lice. Just leave me your heart, until you believe I'm sorry. Money walks a life of dissapointment, while I'm on my High horse, so High. I can't believe I'm wrong. So die all my feelings black, and I will return the paste for your paint, I will treat my Hangover. In prison I dream of the town, in the gogorian tempest.
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