This arid landscape has a hand in making quakes for the sake of small and shivering shakes. Easy women and difficult dwarves will bring your lunch back, the halls swimming with swarthes of whores encourage the hunchbacks to do what they should do and use them. Because they know they're down to their final tissues, and so this crowns their spinal issues, and slow conceding with countenance solemn, further slumps the curling column when it comes to the need to follow them through passages cold and passages fungal, their lay betrayed this bliss fizzles, bungled. The smart bright spark sparks a deal with the real shirt in the middle of it, and by the end of the night promises you an idiot. Because it seemed long ago that the shake that shivered, now resounds a 'no' yet it will always deliver. Lager mulled arguments and enlarged spits and spats populate the right kind of night; and learning that 'if it's perfect it hardly seems worth it' becomes an integral aspect of where you and it are at.
Back at that hunch, the guess that we had has proudly provided. Hunched back over that liquid so fitting is the hunchback, divided. The hunch on his back is the only part of him trying to hold onto the sides of the glass into which he is sliding. And back in the bar burns the fires of the night, liars colliding into those they confide in. The hunchback's tongue on the fringes of the fire, singes and learns of the worth of residing in the houses of hope that are offered to scoffers, from trembling toffs and honest cap doffers; and half of those caps are as flat as the chances that the whore will give back her pennies for dances, the other half higher than resulting offences.