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Perhaps the Best god is War Itself

The town of lefting or nor right, eager town. Town envelopes like only fog. No genius. Red things called light blue in the sky, right now ( your tomorrow). However! You love how the names fit.

A tropical town called Vietnam sorts chords, dysfunction. This is the melody of breathing, or innate American government. The fake sideburns on the commanding face illustrates the news.

A precious sentencing follows the logic of men on fire, sort of uncomfortable. If you were colored like the smoke of burning rose, you would not be dawn but the only field forgotten. Who do you love?


In your town, the fence.

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