THIS CROSS ON THE MORROW The cruet has no place, these tasteless morsels are well enough. Early beams crash into hungry belches, denting the august return of day. Morn prayer is skirted, even the priests. Fathers conjure by sills with mean leans;...
THIS CROSS ON THE MORROW The cruet has no place, these tasteless morsels are well enough. Early beams crash into hungry belches, denting the august return of day. Morn prayer is skirted, even the priests. Fathers conjure by sills with mean leans;...
