It was the marde that festered. Anticipate so to mend it, fend it, tend to it. It locked tholifical dislain for dredom and might, burning all cages in quick succession. Quickness was never late. Ruin turnish of time, tick tick and tock, tick tick then tock, and the sky motioned drip gush nushling down the river main, prescripting hastened breaths on forewarned glass. Whenso disbotic? Whenso verge-docking? Whenso terminus?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment