more like a carnation of family--rainbowed to the sky in plaid pink stitches, listnening to pretend witches--calling for the denouncement of Satan or was it Satin. The itchy feelings of this day are universal. The Son tended to blind my mind. Sitting in a sweety pew, was reminiscent of a car window driped on by winter rays--inside your warm, but outside the frigid sky tells a different story. Robots mumbling their prayers, humbling themselves for the resurection--but from what, most of them have never lived in this time.
the cylce gets played. Spot your family up in egg hunt phashion and call it a new year.