Fallen men dance with treasured souls in our dance halls. The content and criminals burn through floors while the painters and soldiers loop-de-doo. We are the haven of shattered dreams brewed and seeped in desperate pleas to find something beautiful and true. The sense nonsensical and boring baseline a barely contained titillation over flowing with fantastic cries and moans of ecstasy.
A Place of Stuff and Blogs and Musings and ,,,
I am the person who writes in the blog space to the left. I guess I do all the place of stuff stuff...