Wet a glance as the nocturne faded. Deeply rooted was the clause of all men's fears and queries. Nonetheless stagnant to the terms of the ever growing woe-field at dusk. Nevermore would the twelfth cripple slay the beast of foundry lane. Cups of variation would beam and gawk the very presence of egotistical teas, or anything like it for that matter.
She had very much grown to like the groans of the cask watcher, as she needled him, sew. Mana waned, exalted at at the fact that a taco stand could ne'r grasp the sheer magnificence of such a blur of cosmic obliteration.
Fathers of bears DO enjoy skittles, after they have fallen to the gleaming, sometimes tripe-ridden lakes of the barbarian fist junkies of old. Don't ask me why, but scattered pie is far more delicious.
Copyright © Sabian T Warren | Year Posted 2020