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Where exactly that Reel which contains (y)our story is is less important than the Getting There. Because everywhere's a destination but the trick's that the journey takes as long as you like to think about it.

Most begin to step for four more evers outside their circle of breath in hopes of receiving a single cell frame aflame in vaulted desire, trying to never crease that celluloid and never again to cross the rubiconditional again(st) what will mend to the final say what will begotten upon what could be spun or cast farther out still water will seep beneath the ever-increasing steps upon which we all stride, aching for what will turn velveteenage scheming from tiny to a grand production fit for the big scream and hold breathtaken as you walk down the aisle and i'll hold your pop—


Sling a hammock between your (f)ears and get cozy for all eternity, a flash of sight in bound by blood and you will find a Reel too real.

You'll never guess which has the better book (nor which script was cookd) ±from this blurb abubbling trail her turning away over sand, still— only Oscar Meyer Wolfsheim knows for sure.



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