"They fall with force, crush and retreat on our shapes, them statues of a pale sunset, shapeless words of a poem never told or written. Ashore by the emetic faceless garden of stones and rotting bones."
"They fall with force, crush and retreat on our shapes, them statues of a pale sunset, shapeless words of a poem never told or written. Ashore by the emetic faceless garden of stones and rotting bones."