That's what's stuck in my head for whatever and tine. Not enough for the flowertime. It's got to be banking on the sultry and sweet and impossible and good. Let it be known:

That to a Rabbit there is nothing sweeter than the spring, nor more satisfying, because of the lovely and warm, but somehow

That Rabbit is still so very September
That the gods themselves
forget to laugh.

That's all I had to say.

<<agé chose>>

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