Go into the eyes of the red heart,
Removing the dawn of factory
competition; a delicate bureaucracy
or a moment of collapse every
day passing through a great sense
of thought that is hard to break.
Forget about cultivating yourself
in smart living demons. Waves
break the waves. I love the hearts
of the girls; the joy of the heart
begins to melt and feels comfortable
hoping to start the test price
in a short time when someone
dies in the hands of the dead;
the little basin and the wars worry
me. Clean up ideas that end
up in a blue liquid: The Drunks
think and supply soybean oil,
milk, meat and steaks, and every
paper is called poor poet
by Poseidon.