Title #773

A Boeing airjet bona fied squirrel 

" I should have wiped your fucking race from the planet when I had the chance you mongrel mud skin fuck."

Who wrote this, if not the god within the realms of unintelligible matter causing robust explainations of clouds and time tables, spread within the soul and soil. Uncontrolled particles sparkling lights full of sensual contacts with particles that disintegrate within a void left for time and pieces to decide,?

I think I know me, I think I know how to get lost within myself, I think people hear my cancer, I think I am the chosen black coin. The Trojan horse rider, with a democratic background, leather straps for good behavior, delta variant with the hay, not a sore muscle in sight; fulfilling the void with voices of paint, remembering sceneries from my past, concluding the present, remaining unforeseen to the path ahead, tune dilleys within my Capricorn daily amendments (foreseen),;, towards heaven my goods rise, towards heavenly abyss I walk in sheath of, traveling paradise travelers with beak baskets - defining every hill they speak on; (concluding opens)?!, ; I have seen the moon tonight and yesterday's morning is nigh again as these horses carry my lively torso. I still ride the nigh. This night is power, this night is light, this horse is a Democrat, this donkey is a Cadillac, this cargo is on plains, this horse has a trojan; we cannot be seen. We walk amber alerted lights. We hide our soul in plain sight. We revolve around each other, all within the shipment each day and night. Going broke as our providers fall cheap, delaying our meals, breaking our deals, derailing our flights, succumbing our plight. We soon see death, dragged to our feet, we sit empty handed, holding basket of roses, for anyone who walketh the door. The door has a horse on it. The hoop stays lit. The common sense contained, with a cat-liked brain, who could be my enemy,.??.

Euros all around us, two pac being sold, death and revival revolutionary revelations, admins on command, decks on hand, pistols and petes, rooting for another beat.