Some folkses unwind with a beaded glass of red and square or two of chocolat noir. Not Bacchus or his pards for Sloow Road fellahs. Savour instead heavy taste of Flora and country green, with forest branches the trodden weed. Time slowed to drowsy tripped out transcendental hymns from deep woods. Intoxicating synth and narcoleptic raga throb. Vision or waking dream. Do you wake or sleep?
Oddi wrth y brawd
moneyshot
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