If nothing changes there will be no unduly wichek drops of chance. The glorious way home finds is walking not standing the road goes twisting up the high path I’ve the coding spot to fall aloe. In trust the begging drums are heeded. I live them curiously yet u deniable warm. If nothing goes broke in tumbles California brothers fall on swords. Muse call the foraging poets back to muckraking dropsy sunstone. I thank the freak computer gods for dillin g run my words for me. They know what tot hit when I go fast not j own what wil come is beast I just keepin hearing it in my head but something else is being translated. It’s line history itself. I hear and see one thing and later in savaged there is little truth left in the story. It spiced up the new meaning. It all changes again. Way back in the Paleolithic era, the rigorous survival was at Betsy the way for youth movements to struggle grandly. If nothing is transcribed in orderly , than nothing will be in orderly bled from old men’s heads. I want to be in the line of this magical transformation of words.