Print Job #813 By Drew Mikhaylov
Thi man dressed in linen
Thi soulless winds of roaring chasms speaks in tranquillity, rather than listen you sense thi torrid rain pour towards one's face. In thi tranquillity thou seldom thwart a man. Amongst ambiguity thou ferment effluvium vapors raise via crude turf. Impulsive ionized gas dashes aloft, Indubitable suppressing thi journey. Abnormally thou hurtling thi tranquillity, a man travel in lavender black linen. Thee hundred lumen follows. Zchunk roars thi crude turf.
Thi man dressed in linen saunter into a masked den, thee lumen contrast thi dark. And so his eyes can see. A backpack in non-contrast to thi linen cloths. whack swoosh bonk, thou den echoing.