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Warm Brains
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The Islandman
sat controlling fake commandants, yet never touch the breeze, a condemnation from condensation those siphoned dry still gather spores, they've made it easy to while away the time that we have… an unfit mind sits back and signs for new perfect ways to waste our time, i try to imagine what lies in that big brain of yours, the islandman doesn't want for all the things that we have… to take a fertile piece of land build a simple home and when something's washed ashore we'll take it, i will take it. we have more, do we need more than we had?
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