Dolls and shells, dolls and shells. Three sheets to the wind, and swollowed by fortunes twisted spells. An empty hand for a lifeless eye glimmer lost and wasted and spent on hallowed stifled ties. I preach to the converting with a tounge less disconcerting and a name pulled forth from ashes scattered when the fruits of our labour hardly mattered. The poor obessions of solanka. Crash meets head in a blur of demons lost and fired fed betting these last inches of rope on a new machine left for dead. Wasting years praying for solanka an uncharted mind embracing spirits of another kind
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