Come, the Wines are off to the seaside, and the waves by the million! Look at wild Bitter rolling from the mountain tops! Let us reach, like good pilgrims, green-pillared Absinthe… Myself: No more of these landscapes. What is drunkenness, friends? I had soon - rather, even - rot in the pond, beneath the horrible scum, near the floating driftwood.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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