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Our loins burn like fire.
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We are consumed by love.
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And when it's over, we taste ashes.
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And both can be stopped by a blast of cold water.
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Stake out the fire.
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Pyrophiliacs love flames, but we also like the aftermath.
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Okay, thank you.
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Okay, you did not build up the weirdness factor.
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She didn't even try to come up with an alibi.
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I don't know if that makes her seem more guilty or not.
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She also slipped me a note.
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"Call me"?