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I thought the chance, it was a hundred to one. On one thumb I could count up the percentage of my coming undone. But then some calculation of impatiently fated rhymes: sour patch ribbon to the wreck of my valentine. That a fine mess like this should get dished, I would have made it more unlikely if I had one wish. I take ish with the interstitial liquid bliss and insist another double on the rocks with twist. This is a fist full of good credit. This is a circumstance that I must edit. I said it ever thusly, with the bust knee you could trust me, can’t front without two feet to step fuss-free. But see, that’s just fine. I lost mine, handed then the bandit (thin) my last dime, watched the wheels spin, thinking infinitesimal my ten-decimal chance. The professional gamblers scoffed (but the bells went off). |
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