Aaron

Fortunes and fishermen drowning in helium. We should be priority but we're numbered wings clipped put behind bars as if the sky has been ripped from our grasp and remains only a memory in the aviary. The word was boss, top dollar diving then hung on the cross the word was still boss. Along came ***** in pictures the new pixels they sell us as scriptures, but nobody bothered to read they just looked. They'll celebrate revelations drunken besotted with their demonstrations of faith. But christ's on the freeway doing eighty and there's no way that he's coming back. Fortunes and fishermen who hold tight to the talisman praying It'll be alright.