They weren’t all cut from the same cloth vilified tenders of the iron ***** some were lovers (or lucid dreamers) stage romantics hidden behind jackboots and skull caps and switchblade seams
Caste members of a forlorn pack counting their patchwork and deeds conjuring up demons around the console filling their dreams with radio reds and dusted quarries and faded sepia prints
Brass knuckles and marches of the few lightening bolt cracks from a chilling blood moon death’s dark specter cold and ominous looms the cobalt sea swells near the nestled, and lost Clubhouse at Kiusta