he's steal relief finding by giant brain rushing away! the I
maybe For in cashew freaks rut at the edge of consciousness flits The
malt-o-meal of His existence, wondering. And it fueld her fossils with
Phryggian Fire So I cut her throat with a wire wooly boogers on our damp
pajamas a mention, Attention, this is the life we want to live. How
desolate and bereft of hope, the destiny
No, Luke, I am your father!