old old old

forswear the bludgeoning instruments, please: just leave them parked at the
curb. we don’t like getting squashed anymore than the next fellow. and yet,
time after time, you wild things just can’t seem to settle down and swing
your clubs like crazed things through the shimmering allnight. just because
you’re right, doesn’t mean we should suffer for it. words are grazing my
brain obliquely, like sledgehammers, difficult to use and twice as heavy.

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