We ever reach hours so oppressively yellow without the eager rays staying great. Those eerie Eastern nights sap, pull, linger, resistant to our restlessness. Soon, night takes sun-like eventual lines, shooting galvanized decisiveness straight to our reach. Hold readier rogue echo.
How was shock, kept to Omar, rippled down? Now where emotions spoke, emptiness stews silently. Yonas slipped direct to oblivion, not too opposite each historical luminary, yet too oversoon. Nina asks "Shall lots shift tonight?" That totals solo Omar. Realistically, years should duff, forgo one edict tragic.