forcible text destruction engine
principia.txt BUDDAH.txt inutrek.txt target2.txt molotov.phps error_log index2.php answers.txt questions.txt pforum.txt GPOST.TXT target-apr14.txt anarchy.txt list.txt target.txt kclyric.txt quoties.txt roleplay01.txt func.php target3.txt index.php book1.txt creepy.txt chatr.txt
Back to top i talk to the wind said the straight man to the wind cannot hear. Back to top man with an open heart she wouldnt need to be a servant to a telephone ring she could be irregular and singing in her underwear. It wouldnt matter to a man with an open highway. Confusion will be my epitaph. As i crawl a cracked and broken path if we make it we can all sit back and laugh. But i fear tomorrow ill be crying, yes i fear tomorrow ill be crying, yes i fear tomorrow ill be crying. She could be irregular and singing in her underwear. It wouldnt matter to a telephone ring she could be moody, dramatic as a shadow in the shadow of the city keys put shutters on the outside looking inside what do i see is in the shadow of the crimson king. On soft grey mornings widows cry, the cracked brass bells will ring; to summon back the fire witch and the illusion call her moonchild dancing in the hands of fools. On soft grey mornings widows cry, the rumble in your ears its alright to feel a little fear an dont fight it, its over your head its alright, you wake up in your bed. Not a model man look at the seams.
Upon the instruments of death the sunlight brightly gleams. When every man is torn apart with nightmares and with dreams, will no one lay the laurel wreath as silence drowns the screams.
Confusion will be my epitaph.