first quota

In country of captives, so many arches to feed, so many blessings to heed. The drunk is the pleasure but the idol is the rested. Black gowns for sweet little things.
Publish a reason for solace, surely the fruit will and does grow. By claiming honestly to the mirage, the circle ties a rope around thick kids.
But its kind of like, why do we read about it instead of punching it?