The righteous with the teeth and the princesses waiting for the goblin harness of the sun's corrupted charioteer. Bomb-blast orange is in this spring, but so is soul and flippancy. When dinner's cooking and she moves that way, the moonrise grows out of her eyes. And I can't stop laughing at the way egos made of ice swim downward in the warm light. Despite all best intentions- we can only assassinate ourselves.