Oak is a bitter and insane man from the planet of Nebulon 5000, where the scraping weenis-planation farmers form a long syzygy of beautiful greens, spectrum of envy weaving a tight coil of color in my eyes as the sun descends into the dipper of the earth.
Oak, Oak, I see you between the eyes, where you drift along the brain like a sunspot in the sweet melting pot of closed-vision, my lids shut and your pouring self licking about in my soft pleasant darkness.
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