December 17, 2006

Midst that soul is woely numb

As it gets barren, thou has neither easily bygone nor defuncted from my relish, thus departing moi of my quill, as it aroused the exhaustion, reaching to a norm that extincts, gone with the drowning unsobering ale.

An epistle of quietus, simply picking up the curbs off moi in-skull, one mishap that promises a surrogating morrow sorrow afflictions, a tribulation to disguise of repentance.

Merci, to entire you, and all affections that is chiming in those thoughts.

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