Oh, the saturated humors of August!Mold erupts where no one dares look.Everyone’s hair becomes an afro.The…
Poor old Aristotle’s horses,not running as he had hoped.
I cannot get over the extentto which the means of regeneration have degenerated in my fingertips in so short a span:my prayers…
Lifefeeds ondeath — without one the other wouldn’t exist. So, tohow many have you, yourself,been theGrim Reaper?