And our guitars were set ablaze as infants sang to the choirs of angels who's aunts' ants in their pants were scantily clad like a wee one's angle of satin which isn't not called archeology without which we cannot maroon ourselves on dark red worlds of words made of warriors and wanderers. Another one is about to fall, here comes the cutter, here comes the cutter, once again an illegitimate bastard son will go to war with himself and his enemies' friends' rivals will defeat him in the heat of combat without a second thought setting fire to the world as dipped in chocolate with Swedish massages given by Finns to Norwegians as Icelandic pop rock singers explode upon contact with water.

But no, it wasn't not about to be broken like another one which isn't not another one doing it against its will like a blown out wine glass's lynch-pin stealing long lost lovers luggage from latent homosexuals who's artworks art unbeknownst to thou, unlike mine own works with which we wander worlds wonderfully. But it isn't not that when whether sends water reigning over us all like love in the ocean of time and liver while sinful sons shine bright in the night of the moon and Megan marched madly across the mead fields that you omit brazenly brokenly because you are bad to the bacon that stir fries confetti atop buildings made of people made of buildings.

Another one will always drink the wine while whining down the tree bark explosively without arms while the lovers engage in empty intercourse flailing flaming fannies wildly in a very exhibitionist fashion since they cannot be seen otherwise. But there was none to be found as the heat prickled darkly until the elephant's foot stomped it out like a cigarette on Mars. Death for the dead is a deadly thing to behold. But as time marches on we will eventually know the meaning of meanings which is most likely meaningless until explosive burn out the burnouts one by one.

It will not be cause for alarm, however, that the milk in the jar broke clean through the ceiling until angst in August dies like fires in the vast cosmic night of which the knightly virtues are meaningless until a man named Name naïvely nukes naked Nigerians as if nobody knows. But they drank the wine in the hope that they would control cattle casually with its powers imbued upon them honestly.

AND THEN THEY SANG THE CHILDREN TO SLEEP UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE CAME IN ON THE WINGS OF EAGLES WHOSE FLAMES WERE ALIVE WITH FIRE. BUT THEY WERE SECRETLY NECROPHILIACS WHO MADE SHAMELESS LOVE TO THEIR OBJECTS OF AFFECTION IN THE HIDDEN DEPTHS OF THE NIGHT. WHY? RHY BREAD.