These sensual pentagons guard and blend with the night.
You, maker of luck, how have you come to such retort?
Have you not known of such selfish?
Such selfish let a mother live.
Prayers become their own silhouettes, so dare no question.
Makers of signs have not given up, even if the loci of hearts heigthen their gloom.
(10. It would be very cruel to yourself if you come up with nothing.)
Do you care for such squalor? Do you feel like it's about as dear as day?
The honesty you seek shuns still the reality you forsake.
Movement harbors secrets. Stillness stutters. To whom is the point?
Where can you go where there is not an inkling of search?
Where in the hope can you lengthen a walk?
Pure breed, oh pure breed blood. Let your signals be of radar.
Your stars come no nearer than the eye of the left, so please be clear.
Say something declamatory. Be thrift and torrid and plain.