There goes the weirdest weeks ever. Where once my heart was a bag of bloody clots, must now be something like a pulp steaming asphalt spilled by the summer. Nothing makes sense, everything has gone to hell and I just have a horrible feeling to be the most substandard of the universe.
Tick tock, watch as the world keeps turning, the sighs of despair flowing and growing. The chain of events has been broken and instead just have a well with a vinegar smell musty and old fish, which lives beyond my control grains dissolve like salt in a bowl. Control.
I do not know how much more you extend the game, but I have to keep moving chips. It is not over until the end floating. Co
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