I was going to say "if mother's flower-press ending on cannabis = a dialysis a love poem hoping to impress poor Flora = more a motor," but I don't smoke weed nor did I get the girl on that front. Instead I got to walk in her footsteps, traipse up to the whisky bar to look for her, and find her long gone, and have to photo two types of beer instead, whom it would seem would strike up a conversation if they could.
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