Slurries of hails to the standard rail of self-expectations in the projector that melts back-bone whenever faced with a path over mountain that always professes from the abstraction sinkhole. Emptying that cobbed and worthless orafice seems pretty good lain back. it's during stalkings around the star of an other soul's eyes the motor behind the sighs that cut through the man-made fog is needed in my anxious tissue. It comes now an epic old stone to my skull like an old and overfed dog needs a forest's unmountable cedar amber airholm and rushing pulp thick with the scent of meat.