The weird is never healed. I stock piles of ether under my veins. Sinking ritters call the name, call again. Gasoline, take it all for the unisex bathrooms. Beneath reason and under privilege of psyche. (So many sounds).
So when Greer Says Much 666’d the cage, anomaly ensued backwards and down the drain. Say again, call again. Cool is the color of island.
I am bordering on aliases. Indeed she praised my wit to commit, around limits, very cowardly, so low. I forget misremembered things; the not found are my alliances. I cripple towards them like Meteora sits upon garden.
If everything is to happen, I cannot lie to you. But you don’t subscribe to the idea, yet you do lie too. That makes you an awful person, which I’m not.
