....export to the floorintoxicated rundown alley-way to find only creatures too small for sound to reside minuscule palpitations foreshadow dreaming of epic proportions cut slit claw jab tear stab at suffocating tentacles whom, drastically change pace, just to save face internal relevance plays to get even with every arduous visionary of unabashed elegance....export to the floor
disaster! disaster! catastrophe!
they shout for reminder of their own arrogance machinist, his industry begging for a mere exposure to an authentic life naturalist, his woodland ambushed by its own conspicuity
Gnarwhal
i love youuuuuu
Hello Random Deviant!
--
Like a building caught on fire,
smoke is churning up the funeral pyre.
Isabel, don't tell me lies, I want to see you take off your disguise.
Over the mountains I must go. Isabel, I wish it were not so.
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