John Doe

The glasses lay where they always lay. Vintage, brown-framed, and bearing several small cracks that whispered carelessness. They had the signature of the seasons of the seasons past…
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OUR VIRGIN TALE

On our virgin lands they came Horses of wood from Albion's shores Carrying in them abundant fiends With skins pale as lunar's delight On our ignorance they sat Poaching us of our…
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