I just sat in your place, David. I hope this is ok with you. I'm not buying a book but you don't have any to sell. It's ok, I'll just write my own.
Just worried, is all, that my stockings might rip on your unfinished edges. They're my last unholy pair, you see.
I'm next to your friend. He's knocking back and beyond the point of pretending to hide it. "Don't worry," I looked to him. "I'm not condemning it."
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