Everywhere I set foot on, there seems to be trouble worth cauldrons brewing straight towards shit. I am not sure if it always stayed there, tight with me, since my birth. The results, it puts me in, has grown more a headache, sometimes facsimileing Midas' curse with the figurine of a boon. The way his royal palms turned things to coruscant gold, everything I set eyes on, or crossed near to kill some time, ended in deep groomed shit. And now, there are businesses to take care of with the sons of Zeus. Will he win over the leaves in my clumsy kitty?All Rights Reserved
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