top of page

irony of the humectant shroud

At the seventh crowing, the vagrant faerie sighs, drumming and scattering pyrethrums across the dancing winds, scented smoke thumbscrew from the underbelly of the mistreated earth. But for the humectant that saved us all, well soaked to our bones the osmotic hopes of the original revolution.

Ciphered Messages of the Inundated Qwerty

ch.3 v.26


bottom of page