You have tall socks and you're playing games on my device and your fingers are smudgy with butter. Head to toe in lotions and oils and balms and salves. It's the winter, everyone's dry, drier still for all your ointment confiscation.
Get them safely across the pond. Figure out the pattern. Start all over when too many have died. The crisscrossed paths shining forth from the overhead light jump out like some modern painting I hate. Maybe now I know why. I'm just cross myself. It's dry, I itch, and I always scratch too much.
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