The illusive illusion of beat and confused contusion veils the sensory conclusion.
Desperate darts made of many parts scream in unison, all these turnings and tunings fuel the burning and bruising.
All things is a chime of anothers ring that is the point and the thing, so who cares what one another brings.
Caustic Cacti ripping out you and your cats-eye, thrown to the sky you will learn to fly, but try to find the light. Eternal night, shifts and shafts take draughts and laugh while you take time to check behind you, you'll be fine.
Boo
A monk, a shaman and a jew... what would you do?
Geysers of guises of guys relentlessly unstopping, not try'd.
We really wished by this time you'd of died.
-The Hands
