Man the stations, Forward ho!
We reach the gale storm at high seas–filly blocking out our future venture’s, truly the Medusa with slithering snakes upon his head, turning all to Stone, brain brittle–no longer of paste consistency, devoured by the serpent’s.
It is best the storm reachs fever pitch, behind one’s brow, to man the iniquities, and stupidies of fated leadership, and look to a dawn of our destiny, and future sailing flight assured upon emboldened future.
-Abraham Boulder. —-Keven!
The Realism and Hope Foundation 