oh this game, yo…
the winds of summer caress the temperate stagnant springtime. bellowing winter yet to come, short days darkened by the shadow of the moon. a farmer sits upon a rotting log, wet with the rains of a warm afternoon, and he smokes upon his birch wood pipe l, nestled in between his strong work-worn fingers. humanity in the most real form, found in the dirt and silt amongst the noble beetle and june bug, not a weevil to be seen. oh glorious summer, the respite of man!
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