Skin of a boa constrictor left dangling on a branch in the twilight of the twenty-third week of the fifty-sixth year of our Lord holds its hollow scales, petrified of drying up in the glare of tomorrow’s sun, that chapping tyrant.
Skin of a boa constrictor left dangling on a branch in the twilight of the twenty-third week of the fifty-sixth year of our Lord holds its hollow scales, petrified of drying up in the glare of tomorrow’s sun, that chapping tyrant.