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Love is cultured, it is a cold grave, it is something dead in the world, it has neat breath, but its best serenades are insults. Love is very cunning, like a hidden predator stalks you, it is a hand without massaging lumps. Love a good artist spitting busts, in a pleasant conversation with a bland argument. Love leads you to a precipice, he turns to frost and winter is the beginning. 🌹🖊️🥃
