If you hate Syria because it is mean, you are a guitar twice falling to the middle of open tuning forget it.
If you hate that time when the time was open to changing the monkey pile, you are red with a terrible grin.
If you hate the home of Syria while you relay the tempest of doubt, you have a backseat in every bounding bus home from halfway home.
Goads push empty sequence. You
are a wire. The electric
of naming the thing becomes
a moist pattern severely.
We rely on
the noise of
our sound cooling the
airwaves of resistance.
All everything is all anything.