The horror core was made to store the poor; in memoirs I mourn from sorting scorns of foreign thorns, in my dorm it's never warm cause the norm is storms, of searing locust that will **** your focus notice swarms, provoking ****, so I'm torn- growing horns that force, a different course, no remorse through this game of horse, all my progress won't be forced though I will extort, to build my fort, and abort hoarse sounds from dorks, of different sorts.