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The Queen is here, in full glory. So this is her, the one and only legendary valiente. Do you have your head on a postage stamp yet? Or perhaps a coin is more your style? I often wonder what it like to be royalty. Already I feel myself rising out of that animositated ditch. I feel better than I've ever done, which I hate to admit; isn't all that good. I still can't build the steps - I must first learn to be a carpenter, or, in this case, to be accepted. I feel as though skating on thin ice. Pallid mammoth sahib allows sightline to rove before settling upon majestic royalty. Drawling gaze dwells upon formation of porcelien kind has actions are concoted and thoughts played then gathered. Delicate ways are growing although tiptoeing along narrow bridge, sluggishly. Steady courante shifts virile step in anonymous direction, for no apparent explanation... perhaps a feeling of uncertainty? Short speech is abosrbed to allow relief, although beginning of a long race has just started. Simple words give so much effect. Ah, valiente...? Would my assumptions of identity be correct? † r a i † o r I am nothing | |
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