I will go out again this very night with my rockets and fuses. I will blow them straight out of their comfortable beds. Blow the rooftops off their houses. Blow the black, wretched night to bits. I will not stop. For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.
“I fail to remember, the mind has fuses.”
The Bagshaws aren't boys. They're bombs with very colorful fuses.
Good choreography fuses eye, ear and mind.
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