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| squillo | sharpening their fangs on the composite_gruyere, the whistling was undeniable for millenia, not that you'd really notice, except when you weren't really paying attention. The cosmonaut in your cereal box continues to ramble on about naked gardening and quantum_gazpacho, but his dialect has long since melted into static and feedback loops. Don't forget! There is ice cold nostalgia buried somewhere south of the catbox. | 061228 |