I like art. I know nothing about it.
It’s made for the cold.
Cold body talk has a profile that can only be less screwy beyond logic in drier spells.

Rain or cold, either is felt through the mandible, plundering suspicion within either’s asymmetry.

Add sleet or hail, great s and m cuts straight through restructure, mistreating prior drizzle we’ve abandoned.

Either or we. Precipitation becomes a shadow racket. Like tattooing in air — epic sums up the walkway and through the instrumentation if you have any.