Crimson honey exudes no gift as primary. It imagines vermillion staircases and angry shard prints, say...his wall mural when it was shot and ripped with those books of black chocolate. It cast a line, a hazy light, like the exposed juice of comedy and beat, the slithery beast of sticky drops along the mint-green countertops, (the ants will be here soon) urging messy, but gorgeous emulsion. Listen and I will tell of the knife, it was red with a classical flair. There is a secret in the color of honey, but... Here we ask not.
