Italian nights and bloodshed

January will never be the same

I found love with the bitter taste of a body on oak, At some point, all cities will become graveyards -

Love is vague

Your face sits in the distant tog

You remind me of Magritte's mother

She was wet

Unlike my childhood friend who was taken by traffic. Harry met the blade Christina too,

And uncle drank himself to death

Cancer ate mother and father

But Chloe died gracefully in her sleep

O' Death after Death after Death, Where shall I place my love?