i use the seven-years-vintage-wine to praise the final destiny
David's son pushed over the first gate
the second gate was opened by the bump of the first gate
he came to save the strolling ghosts on the earth
Moger's tears became riptide
the above of Herat doesn't smoke anymore
the world is too big that is not the world's fault
only blame the pen-driver is an unintelligent poet
the commons are not good at deduction in air
mystical impulse compresses in every thing
understanding life that is life's top
Wills spoke out gods' words
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