By delicate letting hands our sky is crossed with coming nights waring the reason that any future prepares in place of the unending clouds of my body.
It is a blind passing in dew, a presesence to an earth reborn on a threshold of summer virtue.
Random syllables of sanity from my subterranean barometric life
By delicate letting hands our sky is crossed with coming nights waring the reason that any future prepares in place of the unending clouds of my body.
It is a blind passing in dew, a presesence to an earth reborn on a threshold of summer virtue.