And Withe many Days,Clashed against that Clay Formed skyeline,wondersLight breaching through Wool-called-Cloudes, i remaine to See the Winde beyond that Risen Earth and singe singed the Chimnes called out wails: that: bridges Lie Desolate,Boring,

my birthday isnt really that date but death pretty much lures over my shoulder at most intervals and points of motifs. even with many plentiful notesmashes a string of rot is tied around my little-toe.