Fell asleep on the couch last night. Slid from the arm rest to the pillow under the blankets until was in full psychedelic repose. Brown couch pushed up to cradle my weight. It was then a small pride of Old English Sheepdogs in all their mane and dock-tailed glory trotted forth full speed. One came straight-off to share news of a great return. Sheep herders.
Type type don't stop, tired dog. Type and tell me of the news that you bring. The return of a great king One not bound by cloth strips, mummified and pierced. The dream was in the imperative. The wet black nose searched up and smelled the air.
Type type don't stop, tired dog. Type and tell me of the news that you bring. The return of a great king One not bound by cloth strips, mummified and pierced. The dream was in the imperative. The wet black nose searched up and smelled the air.
