-----> by WON'T

"You boys must be fit for rendering" it was the priest talking pornography, his gravy instant and made him vast and lubricatte.
Petar and 5+5 were wetting for dusk and breathing for circles or spirals or anything round they could obscure from the withering cantor. The priest was made of belief and struck the margins so darkened it was as if to define the limits of permissible tractable areas themself, through tracts and dogma which was drunk and recycled as piss itself
Two paths opened up within 5+5's seeing as sees, Two wanders straight on the same map's space under different names and notions. Two events of have-happened-willing-gods-will and under this all the disks were puffed up to flying and coated right where their skin would be as scythes.
"Yes boys fit for a father's dinner" the priest only once-last slipped out these cloaked up croaks as the mace-globes daggered his griest up form into its inverse, the blood only showed itself to be a map of itself.
Petar walked on. 5+5 walked on. Emma would be done right by, her bones would not be used for comedy.

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