"... vive Paco Hunter."
From this existential cry reproduced on the margins of Finnegans Wake, comes a promiscuous, amnesic cosmogony that manifests itself in the minimal filth of country grooves and various goods. Someone or something left behind Pensacola, and idling in Tishamingo dreams of Boca Raton´s shadow. Nothin´ about huggin´, or kissin´... one word, listen.
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