I weigh your Tanakh, your great granddad’s words about

Bang you’re dead

Average, guilt along with bland lucky tones, a problem. No gist, too popular.

So relax thine form here.

Everything dark-accented inflates 3 dimensions into immense mist of

Poor wee sparrow’s beating yet breathing

True to form A.

The unequal in luck float more already. I hope you’re happy.