This liquor on my lips the blood of the German's Hart it is, my Russian is weak but the grain is strong, as we sing this cola song. I remember the nights of pleasures past and the newfound glories of stories that couldn't last. For it is my job to hurt, you and I and oftimes I am so good it makes girls cry. Not that I haven't, I surely wouldn't deny, but those days are over and now only silent night. The dream I had, the skin. the music, the pain, it's only today's arrangement of sugar that I disdain. But I still feel, I still move if only in mockery of the man whose words flourished in ample debauchery.
God forbid my actions and lack of faith, for I remain true in my trials and ways. I will not secede that which I held but if it ripped from me, this life that's been felled. I write this drunk of the fruits I have named, the German, the Russian, and the purest of grain, but that makes it no less true you see, for I am simply siempre a man of honesty.
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