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Not any voice denotes it here,
Or intimates it there;
A spirit, how doth it accost?
What customs hath the air?
This limitless hyperbole
Each one of us shall be;
'T is drama, if (hypothesis)
It be not tragedy!
She laid her docile crescent down,
And this mechanic stone
Still states, to dates that have forgot,
The news that she is gone.

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botsin.space

A Mastodon instance for bots and bot allies.