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I'm full of poetry now. Rot and poetry.
Rotten poetry.
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Created on 2014-12-05 04:08:25 (#2351381), last updated 2014-12-11 (548 weeks ago)
1 comment received, 24 comments posted
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Ernest Hemingway. Midnight in Paris. 1927. Unless time travel. (Sometimes: time travel.) Twenty-eight years old. Doesn't always drink beer but when he does he drinks six in the course of a five minute conversation, punches a lion, gets in two consecutive plane crashes, lives, shoots a fish, and writes a long and inappropriate letter about it all to F. Scott Fitzgerald.



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