Soliloquized sanctimony is scarcely seldom in sacred sects of sacrificing seclusions, the secrets of which seep with scars and song. Those screaming soldiers in the satellites society shores against the shining star we sing as son. It seems the search for the safe and sound is a scam meant to scare those who soak their serpents skin in slick slaking slime into the sour Saharan to be slain.
Serendipity comes to the sleek sons of shade whom slumber with the slaving sun to save sanity.
To sleep, sweet siblings.
