Memes stumble from the sky, each drip a baud, gathering in sheets of infosphere reflecting electric suns winking dry shielded from the torrents shimmering down each guttering pennants from the victorious cloud shearing in and out of spheres of peddled influence. It's morning. Mourn ingenuity. Flicking overload off its pinions, the twenty-fifth blackbird resonates the mist above the sussurating, suppurating effluvium glittering mega-pied I oughta bite you. Battered by condensate, may one still nucleate?
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