in your majestic ties, the knots that binds us tight into the fabric of
time, spilling blood like love pouring out of a sieve. Nothing feels so
right, like the abundance of flight giving birth to second sight.
Wetting our hands in, whats seems to be life, an illusion of the
blessed night. The story-less vagrant upon his horse, and enchantment
might be something of importance to a mindless, horrid, vicarious life.