There, creeped the essence of light, through a tubular loaf crystal. Fortunatly you all were there to witness such a cascalade. But the exception to post chromatic symamptimum is but a conspiracy to the fectade and the land-laven hypothesizer. Feel free to examine the truth, but it is mirrored in our own favor. A listen to grasp the punctuative barborosque will summon such a feeling deep within our own leredoes. Just know it is of but a finite value, though uncountable, but rythm contained. Skepticism?
It is the future that is important.
I play... dead. I play rigorous. I play to junctual flow. I play real. I play work. I may not like but I'm obligated to it, and I am somehow content?
Expect the unexpected. Unless that is what you're expecting. Influence is but a mere word.
Neurons
NO! ENOUGH!