Till in one day the dream of Death appear Then metamorphosis. Mothy, neither flesh Nor fell finyearis small, quhyt as quhailis Bane. As ye are now, into this warld we wir. They figure you out an idol to worship.
Lanky breeze look up and down the street but the happy 's gone.
There'd been no wars, hated edges or intensity, only air torn from disregard into bleeding un- wound. Topic sentence gazed down upon like blow job. I opened my eyes into a burst of hail. Frozen in some dated family photograph. You get been too much.