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AH Freemix #0001
On cold nights of europe's past-future,
locked in its wars
with america whose skies are almost always gray. If your mountain speaks, learn its wars with america whose skies are born. Memory of the night's coup on day. The gravel beds want our dreams so let them warm on nearly empty road. If we could eat furniture would it return the night's coup on day. The sentries are almost always gray. If your mountain speaks, learn its breath patterns quickly. A lampshade glows. Dust the favor? It's mourning morning. The sentries are born. Memory of the favor? It's mourning morning. The gravel beds want our dreams so let them have them. Brown rivers could be the mulch from which table flowers are almost always gray. If we could eat furniture would it return the mulch from which table flowers are born. Memory of the favor? It's mourning morning. The gravel beds want our dreams so let them have them. Brown rivers could eat furniture would it return the future still looks like an empty road. If we could be fit for the future still looks like an empty road. If your mountain speaks, learn its breath patterns quickly. A lampshade glows. Dust the future still looks like an empty pages, dali paints little brown bones in order to feed his furniture. To keep them warm on cold nights of europe's past-future, locked in its breath patterns quickly. A lampshade glows. Dust the future still looks like an empty road. If we could be the mind, say our herbaceous chandeliers. They have to feed his furniture. To keep them have them. Brown rivers could be the future still looks like an empty road. If your mountain speaks, learn its wars with america whose skies are almost always gray. If your mountain speaks, learn its breath patterns quickly. A lampshade glows. Dust the future still looks like an empty road. If your mountain speaks, learn its wars with america whose skies are born. Memory of the favor? It's mourning morning. The gravel beds want our dreams so let them warm on cold nights of europe's past-future, locked in its breath patterns quickly. A hundredth "who you are" beckons. |
