Can you obviate
the mercurial madness, contracted on a declivity, or atleast vouchsafe an exit from the field, when the salvo hits the halcyon masses, bang, bang, paste? Even an acolyte could festinate a pro rata aid languid as he may be. So why wouldn’t he? As the behemoth races down, your inchmeal ways and reticent face causes loss of faith. And yet it is known, the curfew in the temple, which the priests gloss over, unaware of the tempestuous god who wielding his musket, is on the precipice of a Risorgimento. Or is it all a whistling wind?