Her body still not void of a soul,her fresh corpse dancedto the tune of the undercurrent in that abyss beneath. Beneath the veiling surface which the living cannot see through.Sorrows of the deep, even withina living, breathing corpse, drown in agony...

Long, lost friendson empyreal winds,my goat is a dogand my word is a bird-and there but for the grace ofnameless circumstancego I~coterminous withthe devil you knowon a Friday night...the weak end bluesin summerwood huessweating for the Beastin the swelterof...