Gobs of talent…

Somewhere in the steampunk universe, a crooked little man shuffles nervously through the fog, surreptitiously thrusting his aetheromogrification device further into the recesses of his tattered greatcoat. Were it not for his cold cracked heart and obstreperous penury, artists everywhere would have the means to transmute gobs of sheer talent into stacks of gold guineas.

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