mxnd.

If time slowed to curtsy in front of itself and find the man who did it the culprit how they forget us in all of this the blood of it the marrow the thing that says yes absolutely undisputably Indisputably whichever way the moon doesn't mimic the sun the night the day the angel the demon that's a too bad trip mannnnn that the worse mannnnn that's the worse one that saddle for the king at his back the chair for the map the chair for the king the saddle for the happy and the map for all of those who knowknow know a thing or two about British tea in the afternoon the devils boring who cares the smell the stench of the unbelievable like roses taste a rich as red wine in some kind of synthetic onomatopoeia and the streets breathe in the plastic until Cain is Cain wherever you are, hmm this is heaven