The morbid are you and your shadow.
The morbidity is the temptation to which I can not resist. Are you and an army of Tues-warming winter nights and they blow my mind.
The morbidity over my life and inspires me and gets back on the crest of the wave. Naughty
wants morbidity. Naughty say that saliva fills his mouth and eyes of desire. Naughty wetting the streets at night and making rivers of silent screams, moans off in the mist caresses painful as when I tense as a bow and about to shoot me break in the colorful puzzle. How much I want content, how much energy that runs or crawls in the lowliness of the flesh and forgetting. Three syllables that I refuse to chillarte:
FOR
call me.
And in fact what I really want is to make love. The illness will always be morbid, but the heart will not suffer a cold.
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