Profligate is my new favourite word. Quasi-toxins bleed into many sense apparati. Sometimes quasi is enough to kill a man, and ten women, even if it don't avail you of nothin. It's all half-measures, it won't pan out to pleasin dionysus. Chief Wigum's axioms also speckle in my head, for the record. The night is too young to be this old, ya know?
Welcome to Frosty's bunker. Yeah, his hand is a few meters to our north. Just kinda lies there. There's no pun in that. It was tres accidental. But it's fodder for conversation. It was a landmine accident, we think. But he don't need no saving, I'll tell you that right now. And I'll also tell you that.
There's a pirate that drowned. T'was a battle at sea, and'e was filled with so much lead, tha man just sunk like a stone. We believe e's residing at the bottom o' the atlantic, very much inert. At least his shell. We believe e may've made a pact, not with God, surely, and prolly not the devil, cause that cagey bastard wouldn't have trusted that great deceiver as faras 'e'd've thrown im.
But once a millenia, us lucky few who've been arounded up in this scurvy century suddenly remember, in the dawn
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