Una vez sobre una época había una persona que él caminaba adelante él resolvió los twoards ardientes llenos del balanceo de la luna lentamente él que machacaba las piedras y las casas por el wayside. Ella cerró sus ojos del fulgor. Él dibujó su daga y apuñaló y apuñaló y apuñaló. El grito que paró las heridas de la luna circundó la tierra. La luna se contrajo, como un dirigible pinchado, se contrajo, se contrajo, más pequeño, más pequeño, hasta que no era nada sino un pañuelo de seda, rasgado, y mojó como rasgones. La persona la tomó. Él caminó encendido en la noche moonless que llevaba su trofeo extraño.
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