And if I want saving, remind me each salvation promise, the Santa revelation of it.

If there’s a man up for it, men, groups, who can wrought-iron melt or understand the strength in hair strands, then round them. Auction me for end points.

When you window seek me, imagine airbrushed portraits; you’ve never felt a leg horse-taut.

I’m the colour of the swallowed. Trepidation twelve year.