The fleeting feeling of hope: one’s got to grab on tight, anchor your sticky fists into that macaw’s down because it’ll slip away so silently while you sleep, leaving you with rust and indigo hands in the early morning.
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J’aime votre art. C’est votre existence et la fin du mien.
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The fleeting feeling of hope: one’s got to grab on tight, anchor your sticky fists into that macaw’s down because it’ll slip away so silently while you sleep, leaving you with rust and indigo hands in the early morning.