Muted Aviary

Pleasant voices I adore them they are somehow tuned those mist negotiators in half of strength announcing your personal capitulation pleasantly holding cards laid in front of you you infatuated with spin of his tone by consent taking the place upon his palms became a Thumbelina nop he won't become your swallow even though inclines to the south you didn't even pull yourself together he scraped of that pleasant color of voice those pieces dispatched in absence by testament have sealed the truth - no more pleasant sounds they are all deported to the south story in the story statement my story and his history one story his story devoured my, chewed and spit it out sometimes it is happier solution simply embrace the tree either way, my hands are too small for woods