abrasion! On my iris left not the right eye.
Thought, contusion compels swollen bone.
Asphalt fries and rainy salt rise up majestic.
Never have I written on flesh pinned to death but time is first and there is everything.
Omissions have always been and I today will make two accusations merited without will.
No stronger an eye has turned beyond and passed without frontal core both complex and convex.
An anxiety of inadequacy deflects. It is indeed yesteryear and nonsense which fit not ‘ere.
It is I, a sprawling junky above falsely numbered nines that matters not remaining facts.