Dirty, weaved rope from the hammock holds a choke now. It’s all in the name of discipline though, a place where character shows.

Solitary nails placed hurt into inanimate. There truly is no use in the noise or explaining it.

I do not wish only pleasure to persuade me, yet the thrill of a sharpness isn’t minute. I could muster up quite a stew with just a few brew.

Dickerson bay, who monsterrizes men? Those who were idolized by children with pen.

The sky full of stars seemed dead and cold; a place once so magical now hurt to behold.