I can see how one could submit to the dramatic optical illusion known as your face, humanity. I've given you the time to find someone who's not lost soul in the game of chance. (My conclusions suggest impossibilities). Listening to reflections looking at words, I pass good morning how are you fabulous; (sit down, light up, shoot caffeine). Tar Tar, the manifested troll disease, the external air borne trading game once again in part the rolling eyes. Example: Troubled Genius vol. 3. One seems inclined to write when depressed because it is in that state which one is not motivated enough to care about how bad their verse really is. "What are you, some kinda shrink or something?" No. I'm just a recovering idiot. I implore you, leave pet significance at the door. One enters the box of inhibition usually sickened by symptoms of claustrophobia. Would you like a mirror, a large mirror, would that help you monkey? Do you fear what it is that your eyes would like to tell you? My mirrors are known to do that. I'm sorry we can't be friends, but let's smile and dance anyway for showman's sake. And see, you've run out of limbs to tear out your last. And now, you gnaw at your armpit for eternity, wasting these lessons for five- twenty-nine carafes of sweet luscious blood. I cry for your entertaining money spent. I cry for you losing another shoulder to cry on.Birth sign: Sagittarius
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