If only Kiton and Brioni made straitjackets

Scribblers sometimes mistake ink for blood, or maybe the other way around.
When it happens, shattered glass slashes through pages that, all of a sudden,
lack subtle onomatopoeias, even though they were never short of promising
exordia, and twisted words reek of muddy trenches lined with the withering
declension of a bare chest.

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