iqmagi

Good Eveneing!

Well, I just wanted to update because I want to encapsuate the moment with a fond memory of my daughter that just happened but 30 minutes ago. I offered my girl a small hanful of tortilla chips when she out and out says, " Mmmm, I like salt; pepper is hot, but not salt, salt is smoooth." The things children say amaze me!...
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Dearest Untouchable,

It is in the softest herculian mandate that silvers to echo in the ribs of my forbears the candidacy of the shrill sickness and the afterglow that advances in six clicks and molests my still framed mind in an indescent and precurser filagree of monumental stature. I am impaled in the doctrination of civilty. The horns of Parnasus have ruptured all hints of...
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Dearest Pallbearer,


When does one recompense to withhold the solvent oblique? Or, should the Tabernacle just show itself willingly as one candidly uncorks the air from the distilled furnace of my infernal window. Yes, the systemic Laureate, and the sutured guillotine of an untold violation awakens from the proclivity of an aching remittance, as the torso of all disingenuous intent lay scattered in a million...
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Petite Morte

I feel the Scythe burn with all the trappings of a cold ephemeral light. Take the cloth of my solace, and the barbed skin of such a sweet pear. The vowels of Agamemnon blister on the red coals as a black almond burns, aggravating apocalyptic urns; inviting the four wolves to disobey their wet feast and flee screaming under a moonless and maddening...
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Petite Morte

I feel the Scythe burn with all the trappings of a cold ephemeral light. Take the cloth of my solace, and the barbed skin of such a sweet pear. The vowels of Agamemnon blister on the red coals as a black almond burns, aggravating apocalyptic urns; inviting the four wolves to disobey their wet feast and flee screaming under a moonless and maddening...
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Morte

I feel the Scythe burn with all the trappings of a cold ephemeral light. Take the cloth of my solace, and the barbed skin of such a sweet pear. The vowels of Agamemnon blister on the red coals as a black almond burns, aggravating apocalyptic urns; inviting the four wolves to disobey their wet feast and flee screaming under a moonless and maddening night....
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Morte

I feel the Scythe burn with all the trappings of a cold ephemeral light. Take the cloth of my solace, and the barbed skin of such a sweet pear. The vowels of Agamemnon blister on the red coals as a black almond burns, aggravating apocalyptic urns; inviting the four wolves to disobey their wet feast and flee screaming under a moonless and maddening night....
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I like TT pie!

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