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I like master-keys.

Any easy solution to locks.


Let me in.

I have creaky needs.


My needs are in a 1950s atomic-bomb shelter.

After a dull searching moment, they know to go down there.


People are selfish shits and fair-weather fuckers.

Clap in all the corners of the room. Banish.


Happiness can’t be cracked like a puzzle, a nut.

In the bunker, it’s a bit airless but there’s plenty of tinned food.


My needs are lying on a bunk bed reading an old Agatha Christie.

The blanket is itchy. I’ve always hated mysteries.


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