Someone came and tempered my own blade that which was once formed in the bright seemingly whitened space of soiliciy. tangents ripple and open up their fore waning close to a selected sprite located and simplified above the cover of transience. you are an illusion. your eyes wide soiled by breadth and wrappings of scarcity. they, the oversouls, sanctified an illusory black fold in the matter. 

 a matter of fact is all you offer. a once whole once worn coffer is all you offer. millstone and milestone are forced as the same thing within the filament stone. something hovered around the centrepiece, the centre stone I have formed in my body and quarters. 

Quake to the bone, forms in the stone. what? you’re alone? no I’m at home. don’t use the phone. its made of your bone.

 its always a chastity they accomplish within you. never a tragedy when you're so close, too. evervescent cliché borne of things too risqué and compliqué so quickly compile the dossier. figure it fact check reference to win. trample the peoples dawn in a cheap sin. its society. hustle the wake. wait for your fate in a baked bin. bb cream and tustles fake copying. layer upon layer level upon croft twists making memes out of dreams and memories too thin, navels round travel makes the ground. what sense do we have to make to win him? what rustles in his epiphany can shake his limbs to acknowledge that outside affair our own hand signs until stars dim at the end of philosophy...?