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Something is lost. The lost void, pin-pricked by bastard stars in a grim bastard universe. A universe of pathetic men enervated by a lack of ideological release. They either cum or become nothing, capable of such virility only so long as the Ideal is there. So long as the frontier continues to exist. So long as one does not agree to abide by trade routes only.
"The freak who runs the boarding-house sold his remains on to the crabs to recoup his rent money."
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