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"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times, and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. —Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? Quite chapfallen?
niteofwands
Wordmonger the Poison Walee
7 years, 7 months & 6 days OldBorn 22nd Aug 2016 04:14

Harvest Scythe
Bat Bat
Harvest Scythe