Feel orange on highman marron neck on john cusack's pale sky and yellow veins of the city. We are waiting, we are grins, concussion species, wall of ice and humps of colgate. when The wheather change, all bounded, foggy lotion and necks full of my empty bed and consolation prize goes like god. The lamps are high as we cross the city, yiddish tanktops, terraforming and fiddle all over the skim of African planes, there you go sadie, im seeing purple mouth all over you, terraforming the hemalgates versions of the sky, yiddish telephones operate flat beds on a skimmy fog, yellow fog, kind of fog that remain on the center and make you on a light place with bleuish waters as we run into the city with some figure to occur. the squale on your mouth, suare, yellow sweat made happy within' the dark room. She sat in front of the window, the spilling triangle and fashioned boys holding the knife and saying nothing modern.