Wizened Rod of Plato

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Eyes of hazel earth,the wind once sung of your arrival to these lands, and the omniscient sea salted flame that would arise within your pupils. Your hunger, the wind once cackled among the crisping leaves of autumn, would be one foreign to the ravenous abode of one's stomach, an irrefutable demand for a sort of power that had not yet diffused with our culture.





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