Once up on the stockyard fence rods was a mild mannered income tax reporter that traveled through sticks and thrones to bore a hold through the better side of a log. Once the petri dish was full, the toad family joined up and travelled to a bisque little farm town. It was there that the priest decided to take LSD in a serious way. For fifteen years, he stretched at the bow of a dead tree. His strings were wound with nickel and emaciated from the decade long haul. The incident left tea drinkers and bouncy balls alike, in the hottest drought of their employment. After the birds rewarded the tourist culture, the majors and generalities unearthed the finest project to ever grasp the hours. Fortune and wild boxes will and won't, don't wait for it.

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