The gramophone spirals out Francois Hardy as bubbles flow like rain. You give your hair a fresh unmussed toss and waiver between emerald green fur or a quilted bomber adorned with bird cages and flora. You take another spin and let your eye gaze over the whispering garden. You are struck with a longing for a silk shirt and tux trousers borrowed from the gentlemen's club save for those stunning silver heels you step into as you step out into the nighted air.
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