Stifled, and with a slight repugnance

The crotch of time is spotless. Time is accredited of providing the most exegeses for the nameless downpour of what our affiliation brings. Being tally with our persecution, although we are infused by it, we diminish its value, the one we previously accredit and contradiction occurs, contraction prevails and similitude to the static wherein no wallow is sighted. The subservience of utilising in an oppressed interaction although seeming sanctimonious and heredity instrument whisking, it isn’t profane. There are no shackles. Fortuity is what is desired in each case and to appease only sublimates inveterate foul relentless. “Why we didn’t brake our pseudo-made-impediments and affirm ourselves to become over-indulged with our self-made nefarious putrid”. So many scruples to jostle in order to ensue such a notorious ingestion. Reminds me of convincing a harpy that jeering is delectation to her kind and she is gifted to expropriate the sorrow of the humans’ heart. The spatial deficiency of the innermost diminution of allusion invariably leads to a shrouded immanence meeting. Is anybody there? Any marrow? Maybe a herald to pass the message… Oh, will I halt these twaddle. It can be appalling like being inescapable to bury a cadaver. The gravedigger is never oppressed. But the fretted crowd palpitations are cunning. They depriving the truth. As the text descents into the furrow, the hidden sun is bestowing cerebrally ovation to the carrions.