 |
| tis the season |
 |
| cowboy campouts |
 |
| Ned Kelly/Colonel Gaddafi/Osama Bin Laden's final hideout |
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| Dan and mate |
 |
| total eclipse of the mong |
 |
| Donkees |
 |
| furry teapot |
 |
| club bike |
 |
| ecstasy |
 |
| horse |
 |
| I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness... |
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| this guy again |
 |
| you fuck around, you lay around |
 |
| day/glass break |
 |
| the river |
 |
| modern vista |
 |
| the beginning of the end down Gurnside? |
 |
| we shall overcome |
 |
| plug |
 |
| Owen Byrne, urban extremist |
 |
| pot'o'goad |
 |
| trinkets |
 |
| plotting our escape |
 |
| luminous bodies |
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| lost highway |
 |
| wearable, weatherproof, high fashion |
 |
| orbs |
 |
| the last dude to come traipsin' round these parts |
 |
| gimme shelter |
 |
| 4am slug |
 |
| on the brink of boiled morning... |
 |
| Miles Bacon waits. |
 |
| variations on a theme... |
 |
| sky studies, volumes 1 through 4. |
 |
| more cutting edge head ware from Saint Mark. |
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| brokefoot mountain |
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| and the night comes on... |
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| invocating |
 |
| on the brink of boiled brain curd. Drug lapse. |
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| survival/boiled morning |
 |
| the serpent ever eating it's own tail |
 |
| Doyley's Comet |
 |
| life. |
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