Sunday. Not that bloody... but still a Sunday.
The winter winds breath fire into the jaded hearts of a population of lizard humanoids as they begin the dance of the Wicked Incarceration.
The urbain existence of false hate remarks on the significant milestone of Nevermind by Nirvana. Not to be outdone by the whimsical brother of phone that goes unanswered, we find that castle has been stormed and lands of been pillaged.
"Vicotry is more than Michael Jackson," screams the crowd in unison. They have been entrenched in this war to long and they only seek the solace of a soulless existence. And for the first time in several weeks, they find the time to sleep and to eat and to be at peace. In a world of worthlessness, these are truly rich people. True love is splattered egg from an omelet gone bad.
When at first you begin the beginning, you will see that ending is infinite, yet the possibilities are finite. There is no unknown that can not be undone except the undones that were known but now are unknown.