I've never known what's so damaging about a little nostaglia.
now that the scene's set, with so much as a little prompt:
did you sleepwalk your way as i stirred the pot of pit-cries from the sweltering kitchen to the patter of your the jungle drums, seething through the plaster from your den to the cornbread pattern of luau sways,a hazy heated path, a pastel fuzz. soft budding bass notes induce a nose-bleed.
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