An abject bond forms at birth, delays our death.

There are four ambient music cartels as well: Doggone civilians and industrial dwarfs striking poses with all their operatic powers. De rigueur for now is writing over known injury to outrank putative limits in the mourning of thieves.

I won’t do your religion now, good day. Just piano and voice. Sunken gardens with a fountain of moods for each of Four Graves.