АСЬКА ОБАМА

Make it swear and throw it away. We are like monks who refuse to pray. We are like grace in meadows interrupted by the Rumble of highway for months and years in constant Gray, drenched between the human race, Scars and chaps, knees replayed. Replaying. We're like a brain in fancy's head after the Act of mating, dead. Like the plague at the feast, spread. Alive at least, go ahead. Put the scariest beast, dead. Like a rare species in a net. What's with your sense of guilt that the family Tree swills? Replay. Replay. Replay. Replay. Replay. Replay. Replay. We're the spread