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The Chocolate Chip Croissant [hereinafter refered to as `c/3'] resides, splend'drous, in state as it were, an aura of piquant expectancy filling the otherwise bleak landscape with a tenuous veil of diffuse rococco blandishments reminscent of a bygone Dali. Ruffling through the Power Grass, bleating Vaughn Williams anthems to Itself, The Sinuoid wreathes obliquely betwixt the ant-eaten AM-PM Mini Market soft-serve ice cream cone and the nether buttress upon seven of the like to which, the C/3 expresses inertia. To nothing in Particular, a Voice as a flocculent zephyr rises like heat on a New Mexico highway, mingling with distorted gospel cassettes and the plaintive honking burbles of Carlos "Spit-Key" Ayrton-Plinth, baring the naked soul of his Selmer alto saxophone upon the discriminate ear of the desert floor. "Spuck" It says.

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