This Is Your Life Auditioners for the Potato Eaters wear frowns grown in the night. The glass in the welcome mat is the front door. Kicked now, the kicker draws splinters instead of blood. Few guests are depressed enough to slit their wrists with plywood. It troubles me to let you read these things.
History creates history.
Every version creates another. If you have a different perspective on these events, enter at will . An incinerator feeds the exhausted sky. The air is trapped and stale. It glitters with silt disguised as snow.