this much blue-sweated surd, it comes down from the sky exactly, lights a grey bay in mind
the crease in season spends ruthless flowers on snow that made it, we are trying to accomplish our map the dense leaves were challenging as they rung from the trees mere arsenals were so complete as to pay attention, fallen with the math of after exam now merging is appropriate, lost in hate of any country named forever but only so far as principle needs something the turn n he road exhausts us, the grey moistens with rain because it is there we refuse commas now finding their drama too plain
