Is it wonder, or the ages’ past declarations, that motivates men, torn from tyrants’ viens, to search the histrionic shuffleboard, intent on the suppositional caveat that all is erudite when cast shadow like in bronze, or painted on canvas to overhang the mantle. Thespian, throw me a line. Ask me how, in savior fair, in relic strewn denial of systemic lime tiara, tilt a wheel, time share divested emboli, does the pen pull blood from the page? – Sinz
