there is no bicentennial masquerade

ripping paper, from the left hand, no there is no blood, but some might see a little bit of pealing,
water, from the forehead, this is in no way, meant to intimidate or detoured, only as an extension, to those, quick seconds, that could repeat, for a timely, manner in waiting rooms, always sitting on the contour table, that, you seek.
there is a temperament, which can be only found in side of the blemished gardens of those young follies.
sitting arose for the pretention of things only gods, could be pondering as never looking forwards to the yonder blossoms, those too far away to create in enigmatic,
blots only, beliefery , to
maintain repression, maintain its regressive nature, don’t what to allow, don’t what to converge so will, let the ropes slide, let it all contain a
monogram

Open