There are sparrows in my dare, my dear, with the folk caress of jinxes (courage) in the imprint of a pair of looking-jokes, where the echo slow repeats, if we hurry, if we were her, every word, most of us will be there when he carelessly measures the distance between a hint and the whole hinterland, whole manner of having been there will be between panic and ain't it funny how the prayer in flight mid falling
