If twenty-five percent were adequate, the world would drown among its survivors, gliding through life with cares bigger than their character. The tusks of their precocious caliber gathers mistrust, rust and not so much attention as the rationale would suggest. Their desks are filled to the brim with brandy whilst they’re gambling wildly with the tiresome lives of the nations finest. Trying to provide an orientation that is absent minded in its contemplation, designed to captivate their chances alone, the phone rings. Still ignoring the importance for the thrill. He’ll be shrill one day and shrew to define the gratuity of their decision was unnecessary.
Cracked into two the few who kneel to the pew are in a pertinent state of anew. Personally lucrative to assist and only half taking the biscuit. The frisky security center, pivots upon its reflection, simultaneously apprehending the protection. It’s clear the contention of their objection is unholy. The only man to know otherwise, is stuck behind bars, otherwise. The rise of the fallen saddens the swiftly suffocating serenity waging war on consequence, the sweet reverence of their crime exaggerated in flashing lights. The tie between them binds their wholesome souls together and forever they discuss the possibility of Francois’ conditional anonymity.