дети веселые
они пулемет нашли
никто не живет
(some happy children
found a big, old machine gun
everyone's dead)
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Ideas neatly folded in six inch squares or lying on the grimy floor covered in beer mud and regret.. poetry that inspires a dull throbbing pain in the center of the forehead. circular reasoning and deep insight. My only contact with the outside world. a panopticon.
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