A last feeling of tender sadness, faunophilic memories of green steppes rise to melancholy, a pastureland of the decadent word archivist and acrobat escapes the sentiment; oh melancholy - where are you leading us now? Thus, with a drop of wormwood, we finally breathe the farewell of the true being and revel in the statues of self-satisfied words; and yet there is hope: even though our sadness laments the futility of the present, our thoughts are inexorably controlling the sun: yes, a source of inspiration will surely pour over us in the future ...
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