MOLOTOV v0
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.