Child Moon Crowns A Shirt

Them stay not a brain fever. Instead them shirk old wonder in monk cars in clone real must, must mustard. Driven by not night, waiting not back until youth bereft and sorted goes swaying, child moon crowns a shirt. It’s all very sane as we planned a last weekend in hell, over Europe, over dangerous skies, over leaning into water. Never been on a boat together, as a function of being American. Sways at docksides, beaches in last gleam, shows with studio holy houses, hardwood floors where dumb friends try: placards and vibrations.