Wheels, inner workings, disassemble sugary coatings surrounding the outer workings of just the last of the few decades of lost momentum, filling mountains with watery, avalanche filled graves, catacombs of unknown soldiers, adjusting to life outside of their box. Floating mentions of fasting mothers, high above with eyes as soft as dawn, sacrifice for you, for me; sententious fingers stroking the follicles of each strand with grace enough to be just that.

Falsities arise when...?