Baited souls preach their curves until sold, benevolence brines with violence during the beastly settlement of an eagle-less country, and Meander's got this damned time to tread on the road. All the bars and the gods lit him up, and he's gonna love his wasted soul like disease until his freezing sweat is done with this riot. With a hand dealt all suicide kings, Meander leaves behind his women of fortune for the desert where he can baste his pogrom with the pageantry of his Candy Olive Kake. For in the desert, there are no doors.
