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all to sericeous, war on the end, inner shit , outward crap, but when we linger and walk to the moon, we come to a space of nothing but tools, tools to be posting, shitposting on nostrings attached. where am I? Ah yeah, shitposting.. poetry is like a tree in winter, naked. well, said the pine,, i am still here laughing. 'Oh' said the bowl to the entering turd, thinking it's a tree after many logs have entered his bbsoul.