Kalamity, kalamity: the fall of apeman’s ring. Power duct failure feature entry stream. Withered on the doorstep of a flagrant domicile, the smell of old car upholstery fills you. Dream in the face of the wondering meal, for the stretching of Lancaster’s autocratic pile. Leaping tresses under stained kanopies, they rail the flying fair with brash “hi there!”s.
Winterness grovels at the pointed toes of you; pain pencilled in the fresh burg on reel. The wildness mask is crumbling away: they trucked the shambling planks across to the receiver, in high trust of dance. Kept it within the ring.