The present has them. They are holding the box shut. Inside cats, poisons and Pandora trade Cheshire moments ment for times before. They are needless, waiting, smiling for the future. With the cutting of scissors goes the ribbon. Opening the box results in a yellow, marzipan scented toaster-strudel. Yet a lack of toaster results in a cold sub-par breakfast requiring mouthwash and coffee afterwards to cover the bitter taste of dead cat. Oh that damn woman and her faint smile. Speaking of which who let her in?
Who cal
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