Swevens’ scenes at the buttercross sated sweetly—with citrus interspersed twixt croissants and, as well, swigs waiting in buccheros. But, such a situation was—unsurprisingly—usurped by a utopiate under the tongue, which wielded, instead, a world of sand and palm and hut and beachy-keen peace—with throne readily awaiting rein of restful retreater. ; )

Categories: Melange

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