Evil is his taste bad omen
Shadow charge of murder
For Dreams are
embryos and hope to one day shine
For one day
Under Warm rays of your eyes from your breath
Steeped words
What profuman desserts.
march from holograms
Without disturbing
In a corner In some
damp basement of the mind
Abortion
not predestined to rend with their agony
Muti walking dead have no awareness of time passing
Without wanting to go to sleep never to return
They would like to fight but have no nails ...
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