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Old 07-10-2013, 03:25 PM   #41
oats
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No worries, I know we're all busy, just making sure to keep this fresh in our minds.

I posted a handful on the first page, if any of you have time lmk if you guys suggest to drop or change any.
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Old 07-11-2013, 12:44 AM   #42
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@oats

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Old 07-11-2013, 12:56 AM   #43
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Then spread the word so people buy it! All money will be equally dispersed among contributors. But we have to have a product before we can make any money.
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Old 07-11-2013, 01:43 AM   #44
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Cool. Pm me ur email. I wanna talk to u about it then
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Old 07-11-2013, 09:52 AM   #45
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Quote:
Originally Posted by oats View Post
@dead man get on this! You too @Seyance, we're waiting on you guys! And @TopicalDood5 feel free to add another couple of verses.

I've thoroughly enjoyed reading what I've seen this far, I'm excited for the project. Is there anyone else we would be down to include? IE sacrifice, 3pa, vulgar, English? Those were the names that came to mind for me. Lmk
who not sent anything yet?

NAME AND SHAME PLZ!
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Old 07-14-2013, 05:48 PM   #46
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Lets keep it moving, people.
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Old 07-14-2013, 09:17 PM   #47
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One Must Be Kind To Beasts
She sat
on a bench in the park attending her thoughts
her...
sweltering, wretching, unsettling faults
meddling every dredging need caught
between the light of her dwelling
with moths -
from a locked-stiff closet her memory locked.
Eyes closed but sockets popping her retinas off
like her love and blood and grudges were condensed to a clot.

Cross legged,
arms flowing even to her shoulder distances.
Body connected the way her whole existence is -
a touching at points that leads to remorseful vigilance
when meditation melts into over-thinking it.
But..
She feels so omnipotent, so ubiquitous,
prone and limitless..
while she
only
sits and thinks.

In a park between
some dorms and apartments.
Surrounded by loudmouths she's courted and got with.
Where shes gotten more then retarded
doing shots until someone delivered Shawarma or Sonic.
She believes reminiscing is boring to logic,
so all her past thoughts leave her tornfully haunted.

She knows the layouts
of various balconies and living rooms
- and knows which of her exes has to see her sitting soon.
Banking on his wonderment
- His tragedy's her ritual
so she tries to appear casually conditional...
but between all her ghosts
it seems
this fantasy's habitual.
A demon spirit feeding fear itself
and blackening the richest souls.

They're all drawn to her
but above her, in a way.
Some look down at her
for the apologies shes struggling to make,
some do their own thing and some others look away.
Others are there as random clutter in her brain
that she drowns out like a gutter in the rain.
She's stuck between a hangover
and a walk, calling it a shame.

She's just a college chick
- a future worker and parent to some.
Passing a moment in her life she was barren amongst.
We'll respect her when her ties are barely undone
without knowing how she faired from her slums.
We'll assume she's felt disparity once
and wont relate her to the
witch
we rarely discuss.


"She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man." - E.M. ForsterSh

----------------------------

Agathodaemon's Bus


An olive rain coat, black top hat and a briefcase
- with a trail of smoke that brandish a dream-scape.
To get on his bus he walks through traffic mid-speed chase
and to park it he's gotta crash on the freeway.
All of his passengers prepaid, and are all city folks;
while the bus itself is his mechanical symbiote.
An aura surrounds them of blood splatter and rings of smoke
that take cues from graphics in videos.
They're addicts
and cynical about the habits that give them soul,
limit them, and stick'em with crass individuals.
The average, habitual, drinker is fuel to the engine.
- Business is great
the bus' movement's relentless
There isn't a moment he's not in the mood to be reckless
with push bars, spiked wheels and a buku of weapons
to make compact car cubes for some tetris.
He's on a crash course with assholes who're usually desperate
to speed through life from their futile inception.
- Is he creating destiny or just choosing the destined?
Either you're doomed in the present
or you're on fumes with a death wish
until your future's a dead end.
The losers are let in -
It's grueling and pleasant when the bus is fast in turns;
Tires screeching before it pumps its wrath and curse,
then its full speed ahead so rough the gravel bursts,
crushing bastards first -then they go in the flux capacitor.
It needs more souls
from mortals
drunk and lacking verve.
It feeds on beating hearts and constant massacres.

The driver speeds through the lights without a visa or license -
- he's just the entity - the demon inside it.
Born from the views that his mystique is so violent;
but he's simply out looking for people just like him.
He frequents his wine sips - merrymaking the road.
The vehicle pilots itself - unfairly taking control -
he'd be lucky to down shift, barely saving a soul.
He lives in this mobile morgue where the gate isn't closed;
- where he favors the dull and considers it reliant
that his biggest uproar consists of drinking himself quiet.

The turbo inlet's giant: tripling what the pistons are doing,
The exhaust is so loud it muffles the vision of movement,
It spits out fumes in a prism of plumage,
and runs a molten block under a cooling system of sewage.
With tires slipping on lubed slicks - drifting like cruise ships
wrecking everything from hoopties to the sickest of new whips
The underbelly - dripping wet and reckless,
with headlights that leave victims dead and remnants.
It's idea of road kill is drunk pet detectives
-and a good spread is when five cars spread the exit.

So when you're driving drunk, feeling hardly in danger
don't forget
Agathodaemon is your guardian angel.
--------------------------------

Smoking Aegis


It's funny how something with such tiny specifics
like mindless defenses perched under eyes and our centrics -
that fight with a sickness, change our height and dimensions,
and how light seems reflected - while defining our essence
might be effected by something so blinding and distant.
Take the bible for instance; Take a Life we've conditioned;
Lend silence and ears and blend science and fiction.
Watch green apples in a seaglass goblet apply the conniption...

Earth bred humans, but the sky was God's creator -
and three hundred cubic miles of water vapor
crafted clear in the stratosphere, spread so ominous,
and gave the ozone molecules for extra oxygen.
- A wedding ring of ice as a canvas above,
like a canopy hut that the immaculate hung.
Lightened, yet, the sky was red, - refracting the sun
until the ice would melt and pander a flood.

Earth breeds plants, and the vilest of humans,
with them - three hundred cubic miles of pollution.
The sky is so blue-ish...during minimal glow,
so filter your hope through rings of cigarette smoke.
Sprinkle a coat of colors as exhaust manifolds pop.
Nuclear neon's and violets are dabbled in blobs.
The sky is set with bright effects, blackened by smog,
until life'll melt or we bring cancer to God.

Brutes weren't the meanest - in tune with the seamless
safety between the ozone and Methuselah's aegis.
Neighbors like-family acted communal as creatures;
Subdued by the frequents of rurality's bliss.
- Produce the greenest - an air born UV protectant -
Slowing their aging - folks in their 80's look newly developed.
People were hundreds of years old when the sex begun
and Patriarchs played their parts for close to millenniums.

Rapturous workings - looking for bastardized mercy
with palms shackling the aegis of pastors and clergy.
Cars crashing and burning - cellphones family alerting;
Neighbors daft to trailer trashing accident 'turvy's.'
Aging cream and tanning lotions keep ladies refined -
who intake UV rays until the day that they die.
Extremist tricks leaving kids racing to try -
and alcoholic dad involvement is wasting some child.

No tailored theatrics, their language was tactless.
Every word spoken was directly related to actions.
One dialect devised and kept - trained to the masses
and the world functioned without straining the planet;
Families and travelers able to discuss what they want -
Then the ring melted and caused a flood for a month.
Subtly some sunk - Noah and others drifted apart.
Shivers and shock progressed into lisps when they talked;

An individual's thoughts, plus affliction and loss
shaped the way our brains would shift and evolve.
Some simply forgot, some don't know what it means
to realize our ancestors had the Utopian dream.
We're French Canadians managing amongst friends,
We're Indian Brits listening to Japanese Ebonics,
We're deaf-mutes with reputes to cry in astonishment,
We're a collective voice that sounds like an argument...

It's funny how something with such tiny specifics
like mindless defenses perched under eyes and our centrics -
that fight with a sickness, change our height and dimensions,
and how light seems reflected - while defining our essence
might be effected by something so blinding and distant -
such as as a star, vapors, timing and minutes.
We've changed in every way and written the plight of our legends,
but between creation and path there's no final consensus.
--------------------------------
Wedding

A presentable mess, dignified by the hunch enharbored
in a sleek suit that weighted him like tungsten armor.
Making a glowing entrance from the sunlit parlor
with a pep in his step while the munchkins lauded.
He didnt jump for joy, and his frame wasn't rigid.
He walked the aisle with his ball and chain like a skip it.
Her head orbiting him, navigated by physics
as eyes were the counter that rolled...feigning her interest.
An ensamble plays without change in a cymbal
as he nears rows of people he favors and mimics.
The furthest ones back ensure a spaceless exhibit
and those in between meet his cantankerous limits.
The strength of his muscles beg for forlorn rescue
but he's walking trapped in war torn dress shoes.
Each step is a relief only when he's pausing slowly
as the latch of the ball and chain is causing cold feet.

He wasn't a mess before he put that suit on.
He thinks the marriage wont drag his foot for too long.
With all the light shining on his largest omen...
all he had to do was vow past his darkest moments.

She walked with a smug smile and the flair of a princess.
Each layer of her gown could air out her business.
If only her corset could spare the constriction
so she could breathe before vowing bare to the witness.
She wore her ball and chain to her marriage indifferent -
a fashionable dress belt you'd compare with a vixens.
It was thicker than usual - with daring ambition
to help hide the bulge where she was bearing her children.
Broken values alongside karma that faltered
as she walked perched against the arm of her father.
Approaching the terrifying, yet, marvelous alter
while thinking thoughts to harmful to maunder.
She relishes each second lived in this damn dress
but anticipates the moment her spirits transgress -
Throwing the bouquet of balls and chains from her mound
to strike like a midevil mace at the crowd.

She's ready to be swept into the night any moment
but first she passes off this rite of emotion.
She's getting ready to be much more lady like -
with thoughts that could make her unborn baby cry.

They sat as the masses - swooned, or born to act.
All dressed similarly - but less uniform than fad.
Mannequin smiles stretched when a mood of normal passed
and toasts were replied to with a group of formal laughs.
They had all gone through this motion of passage -
Their personal dichotomies were open to fashion.
Some women wore earrings that were rolls of their black whips,
while scars held the dress up for those in a strapless.
Most had wedding bands but no dote in their actions
- a tungsten and diamond wonder twin controlling the masses.
Those who had kids kept a grain of salt employed
as chains were leashes for their balls of joy.
The men had problems raising their glasses to toast -
in contract tight cuff links and a mannequin pose.
The strap on their throat was for pain to subside
when hanging their head by the ball and chain as their tie.

A Kansas City Shuffle for certain individuals
bordering between a circus and a ritual.
Laughter and applause are perchant in their visuals,
in the manner that everyone's working for their victuals.
Even bride and groom aren't partial to the antics -
respectively imaginable - the garter and the dancing.
Black suits and white collars in this heritage setting
entrapped as a charade for the American wedding.
---------------

Hair of the Dog
[s0ize=1]"Just because everything is different doesn't mean anything has changed."- Irene Peter[/size]


Everything was red - like when you're awake but your numb
and your eyes are closed but you're facing the sun.
You lie there with your head aching a ton
while managing the confined space in your lungs.
Your tastebuds are pushing up daisies and rum,
but you cant get rid of the flavor it sprung.
Your eyelids slowly stop hugging themselves
and the sun greets your temple with a bludgeon to help.
Focus is pulled to become a drumskin that's stretched
as hollow hearts evolve beyond a "bumping effect."
Summer is met as the sky's blues are magnified
while pupils half their size from hues that stagger eyes.
A dizzyness comes from the woozy-patterened sky
like things lightly reflected are dually sacrificed.
Movement might happen like you're flinching through systems
and rolling in graves to get into the sitting position.
A lawn exposed with torture methods strange and passe
- your head pounded the same direction and way the grass sways.
The green color palpitates against your face in vast rays
and its existence alone elates the drab pain.
The weight just cascades pushing the earth and your sleep
of mud muddled from tears rubbing the dirt on your cheeks.
A proverbial groan that sounds like it merged with a squeel
is let out between a muttered prayer and a courteous plea.
Eyes searching the field find the sun shimmering
against your open handle beside your unfinished drink.
That one glistening thing makes you wince at the sky;
forcing a reverse vertigo feeling of drifting inside.
The light blue comforts while bridging the sight
with tear sockets too dirt clogged and hindered to cry.
There's grit in your eye, and a timely memory
blurring a vision of future with myraid effigies.
What's you're reaction to this climate, mentally?
- Wet behind the ears no matter how dry the weather feels.
Breezes that free skin but can dampen your gasps.
Chain tight vein lines along hands in a path
that lead to fatigue while you stand in the grass.
Mundane sun rays thats force you to grab for that glass.
Shattered, relaxed, irked and swept with fear...
the warm drink becomes a working grenadier.
You slowly examine the dirt you slept on here
to see one outstanding German Shepard ear.
A glance at what you began the night prior,
as a gust thrusts your innards and expands your eyes wider.
- Expierencing a best friend being buried to rot
- both your sense of control and clarity lost...
Liquid courage rises as your lips cherish the sauce.
You'll end and start this the same way
- hair of the dog.

Last edited by Pent uP; 07-17-2013 at 10:05 PM.
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Old 07-14-2013, 09:47 PM   #48
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The Reapers

This light; it's the only thing that keeps him breathing
On a boat getting thrashed by the deep blue Demons
They eat through seamen - foot-long katana pearly whites
Eyes filled with sin; as the bitter wind tangles the whirling night
The burning light that he uses to turn and fight the leviathans
They're necks entwining, he'll only survive by divinest whim
This Hydra-thing takes every blow; the dragon persists
And it's tail whips back and forth and it rattles the ship
Blackening fists, wracking his grip; the writhing wreath of neck
That towers over; scented with the sour meat of death
He keeps his chest sturdy in the wake of crewmates rogue limbs
Battling monsters with the light; against the blue grave his souls in

It's a crude fate, we're old kids fighting to rhyme and reason
In the night we define the treason in a dreamscape
for our dream's sake we strive for ceilings..
Our tiny light, our burning ship in the ink black sea of monsters
Fighting for air, against a world we just need to conquer

The sable robes, the hooded guises - crimson red, crooked eyelids
Blackened features, bastard creatures, the living dead, they look in silence
Or reverence for the eminence permeating evilly, strongly
The herd's breathing is haunted, by ghosts of the past
The reapers shepherd them forth - showing the flow of the path
A pale symposium grasped by the clutches of grim shadows
Moving to the drum of the reapers; like bunches of sick cattle
Their fists rattle as they wave them to a field of desolate graves
The pale horde can't recall memories or remember their names
Only feel a center of pain - ushered forth like goats entering barns
These poor folk.. alive.. but dead in the heart

But not him! No he's escaped the treacherous ocean waves
And progresses along the road he paves, slowly escaping
A closing grave - on the island where he pursues a treasure
Armed with his light; a might that only few can measure
Truly weathered; slip and be left for dead in seconds
Using his light; he equips his second weapon..
..A deadly blessing; he draws a pad and parchment
For which he exchanged his classic armor
As he leaves the shore and enters the island's forest
He meets the wrath of archers! A suprising chorus of violent forces
He battles harder, than ever, despite a forever of fighting
Trying to fulfill a dream that must be measured in lightning!
Quick hot flashes in long battles, he wars with the enemy
Fighting with his light and his pen; supporting his destiny

The reapers watch and laugh as the hobbled cast proceeds
Afraid and unalive, shells of flesh with a lack of dreams
Tragic schemes of fates fallen short, afraid to leap
That sweat in the killing fields, under the blazing heat

But he is not afraid to chase what is his, what is calling his name
He fights through the soldiers, although he is crawling with pain
Impossible strains, as he fights through the wooded paths
Out of breath - hearing sounds of stress in each crooked gasp
But look, at last, he has reached his mountain peak
And he is validated by the knee-jerk sound he speaks..
"Finally" - He begins climbing and climbing
His hope's silently rising - his heart is beating what fate is designing

The reapers twitch and instantly, all eight turn eastward
A visible rage, shown by their shaking features
The angry creatures fly off, sensing something painful to see
Some rebel living his life, and chasing his dreams

He's reached the top of the mountain, his passion rewarded
Creativity forging against the violent path he was touring
He feels he's actually soaring, through the cloudless skies
Nothing but sun until he collides with a shrouded guise
He feels under the gun - his drowning cries grow weaker
His spirit fleeting, caught in the undertow of the reapers

he can hear them whisper...

Embrace the scythe - relax and leave this painful life
Escape the strife and fade to night - let the reapers take you
Even the grateful types need not even speak a thank you
After all, Destiny calls, lie down beneath the hopeless sky
Let your open mind heal, seal, and relax your broken spine
Close your eyes and hear the gentle crackle of your last gasp
And sport a smile while your soul shatters to a laugh track
.
.
.
.
He sees the reasons to fail - a haggard man strapped for cash
Beggin for change from the regular slaves in plastic masks
He sees his parents shaking their heads, a woman laughing and leaving
He hears an audience ***kle.. he feels lumps trapped in his breathing
.
.
...no.
.
.
.
He draws his light, his way of knowing this is what's right
A blazing beacon that acts like a gun in the night
Like a motherly sprite, it guides him to his quill and paper
As he pens words, excerpts return the thrill he savors
He grips his saber, a blade constituted of art and passion
A martyr acting against the eight Necropolis kings
Reaching for his third weapon, unleashing whats bottled within

He draws his final weapon...
...unaware of what it could be
Until Now!

He takes a peek through the looking glass
and sees all of earth's population looking back
Everything he's ever done, is under the scrutiny
As he trips and bumbles and stumbles beautifully
Through poems of mistakes and paintings of failings
He feels a heart beating, that aches for prevailing
He knows now - billions of eyes couldn't possibly matter
As the wind whips and kicks up, like God calling for rapture
The Reapers are ripped away into the bluest sky
As he finally begins chasing his dream.. truly alive


The False Cartographers

He had a name - not that he could recall the meaning
Not under the pressure of these falling ceilings
Not while he's lost in a cosmic reeling - among the city's aether
Searching for his name in the dismal weather - turning locks
On vaults of feeling - grooming verdant thoughts, hes rocking, kneeling
Thought -
What has purpose brought but a riddle measured as fickle treasure?
A bird with wrinkled feathers - caught in the galloping thunder
A day dreamer battling slumber - alone in the vicious rain
Beneath the overpass freeway;
A screenplay of grave theater/trappings of wonder
what is his name?
Flying through different frames of the metropolis maze
Trying to convince himself he's honestly sane
Caught in a haze of alchemy experts - tying off beneath balcony networks
Where the clothes of the poor hang ragged with wet dirt
Their chests hurt; scarlet burden - should he don that armor?
Searching for that song he harbors; his heart is certain
He's the wrongful martyr behind this cosmic curtain

Desperate for his name, to break away from the city pavement
Catching different wavelengths from the Gospel's ripping pages
this misty matrix - won't grant passage from the binds of fate
Lost in the violent traits behind the slums iron gate
This is the final place as his gait stalls and dies
With no chance of escaping these walls, divine.

She had a face, but couldn't understand the curves
Nor help but feel like she's falling off of Planet Earth
This has been the plan since birth - a damning curse
Her candle burns, but won't illuminate the desert skies
She follows tracks that span the dirt - that mesmerize and tell her lies
of better lives past this granite turf
...
A head full of ghosts, and blackened faith
She grapples rage facing the battle blades of a lesser fate
Trapped in the weathered plains of the nether's waste
A fettered face - she can't escape who she is
On this desert byway - things are better my way
A useless wish to Heaven's highways
& the Truth, it hits; like a group of brick, or another vocation
She'll watch the desert stars shine down on another location

His name is spelled out in plainest letters beneath the rainy weather
And the thunder's shaking tremors - between the looming monoliths
Crude and ominous - steel towers spell doom for a ruined populace
Caught dead in the middle on confusions continent
His head is a little - airy, like his fading heart
But he shrinks into the shadows, and plays his part

Her face is ugly as demons unleashed from the bowels
The ones beseeching this queen with their screams and their howls
Feed for the final - stay out on the desert plains
Living in the carcass of a vulture's wrecked remains
Her present grave.. no matter her dreams
The passage, it seems - is sealed by the wasteland
& this maid's hand can't shatter the screens

Quote:
Address the purpose - nervous, searching fruitlessly
For delusions of grandeur to trump the saintly sunrise
Faith laced in dumb sighs, combined with
Unspoken fears of broken gears turning cluelessly
A masterpiece of scattered entropy
still
.. working beautifully
We're all mapmakers writing fiction on a blueprint
but there's no escaping what's been made for us
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Old 07-15-2013, 02:34 AM   #49
oats
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Ok we got myself, Lars, soul, and pent. @dead man should be adding his part shortly. @Seyance are you planning on contributing verses? Also, what's the word on the design and whatnot?

I'm thinking everyone should have a little "about the author" bit on themselves as a preface for their section of the book. No need to post that at this point, but start thinking/writing it up people. I have breaks from teaching in August and November, so I'd like to be able to wrap the project by then if possible. Hit me with your guys thoughts and input, too.
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Old 07-15-2013, 09:43 AM   #50
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Im gonna change one out actually. Give me a day
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Old 07-15-2013, 10:47 AM   #51
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dopesauce!
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Old 07-15-2013, 03:10 PM   #52
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ill search for some more pieces but i think i have my best up for the mostpart

yall should go vote on the league finals its finally up
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Old 07-17-2013, 10:53 AM   #53
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i honestly don't have the interest in reading them i once did

noone writes from the heart any more and has fun with it

they all read like the same story rinsed and repeated, zero emotional worth and far too mechanical

i miss the old days when i hadnt learned so much and everything was new to me

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Old 07-17-2013, 10:05 PM   #54
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updated
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Old 07-17-2013, 11:47 PM   #55
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appreciate it, Pent. @dead man get on it.


Great battle between Black and Soul by the way.
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Old 07-25-2013, 08:03 AM   #56
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where we at with this now?
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Old 07-25-2013, 05:18 PM   #57
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@dead man @Seyance


What's the word?
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Old 07-29-2013, 06:36 AM   #58
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YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE
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Old 07-29-2013, 03:15 PM   #59
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Oats I still gotta email u that # my bad dont let me forget..at work tho cant do it now
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Old 07-29-2013, 08:24 PM   #60
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Got it pent, thanks.
@dead man @Seyance


Can you guys at least confirm or deny participation?
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