The subtext is dance like nobody will remember your lycra-clad thrusting because they’ll all be dead. Love like humiliating rejection doesn’t feel so bad in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Sing like tomorrow your vocal chords will be dust.
Read MoreThe subtext is dance like nobody will remember your lycra-clad thrusting because they’ll all be dead. Love like humiliating rejection doesn’t feel so bad in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Sing like tomorrow your vocal chords will be dust.
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