Yeah, and like Robert Pollard, a perfect compilation of his work would fucking slay the majority of his contempories, even if many of the albums touched upon are hard to sit through...
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The toothaches got worse, she dreamed of disembodied voices from whose malignance there was no appeal, the soft dusk of mirrors out of which something was about to walk, and empty rooms that waited for her. Your gynaecologist has no test for what she was pregnant with.
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