PJ Trojan's Page

[Book potential 1#one]

Of alchemy and pedestrian crossings, there lived a soul of destiny. In March to wade across a many hardships it would hearken to the wake of masochistic absence and lifeless settling in a land of fresh strawberries and lemons.
How many abysses’ had it seen and lived through although never returning to past measures of reckoning. To Eleanor it would say many careless verbs of past tense in prejudicial monologue, increasing flawless streams of jet fire cascading to starry pistons. Horrid sensations through morbid reasoning of experimental nausea, to create beauty with the mature qualifications of human contraception, it would reason with the dusk until ground rose from men out of which spawned chaos.
One to five was at blame.
Thereafter out of the naughty stench of past papers and Sunday’s newspaper – out of which ravens were taught to fly by their young, the dead would rise.
Monstrous pretence! Fall away, and survive this march on top of peaks of hindrance – and paranoia, please forget and forgive March, through despair it wakened.