Turn

Its' truth, and it's in the dark, but with the spark we can wall off like a plaster of farce, any indecent start, with incandescent sprawl to remark. As if it were all the placated thing that does the hard lard- I never needed but grew to embark! Outcasts spell me neededly' as I see whats seething-rot with grease on things. I'm pleading eagerly, for the right stage for the print of my priest- but wonder allowed if i'll have to keep repeating and easily wondering about the joggy' facts, the eccentricity of my real badge- the maps toggling themselves to distance innumerably far from my wrangler in park, and the truth that's so dark.