Junks mode name above the throughway, read by the hawk’s eyes of the mate through the scratched windscreen. An Egyptian Honda, he swerved it branching three ways, triangulated the vanishing point of the long perspective. The scope of his direction rocked the pilasters of petrified rage.
Make the dot, oh John, keep the cure, bray the spangled path with parti-shod treading, churned flat in the pocked and plastered trough engorged. Through the ranks of flickering fires into the night between all creation and sound, he went in the Honda of Egypt’s roads. Ready the master, spread the masterpiece, we have pictures for this extremity, and the name above the roads is read by the back of the same eyes forever.