So that was the nigh of that and I was playing on an andulisian carpet with an Anatolian fresco. Keening on murals. Keeping it like a gardening was sure that night was surely old. So sure that a sliming slum would keep off with the robe of a sugar mount. Mount, mount that of a blade so that the night would keep off. Not.
Noting that the sure was the bone whites of the Room was gardening of a darkness never seen of. A seening of a sew and it was bleeding the blade of hate, hatred and hatening. Gardening of the haste it was. The flowers of evil, only can come from the soils of the Mountening Dead. The germinals of evil only come off to the flowers of them. The flowering of the flamboyance, only can come off with a robening of the faceless.
That is Dead; not with a mask. That is the facelessness of an Asylum. White of the bones. Dead, bone white.