Songs of Death and Institutions

You couldn’t explain the scent of candle wax and decaying blooms, absolute chaos for a pain fermented so called angel of a southern lip like kiss upon a lip upon the wheels of everyone jockering and mockering just made up terms like hereditary monarching. On German found family business, occasional whispers of all things falling apart from a Matthew on Friday to a Father on Saturday broken up shot up to a million pieces. Welcome to homicide. Turn off all devices.