This feathered lightning is stroking at a second perpetual obscure will of worlds breaking into my head like a landscape without handles. It is growing out of this living, dressed in its underwear.
Random syllables of sanity from my subterranean barometric life
This feathered lightning is stroking at a second perpetual obscure will of worlds breaking into my head like a landscape without handles. It is growing out of this living, dressed in its underwear.