It starts here. Write? It’s rite of me to right. My hope is that I play wright on this site. After all, who hopes for what they already have? (infer then when I write rite I don’t play wright right). If I cite my sight, I see that my write is not right as a rite. It’s what I hope to avoid–to hope for something that I already mine. It makes no cents to hope for sense when I am trying to raze the barre I stumble upon, barring of coarse habits that a drunk man grets and then regrets to his cha-cha-cha-grin.
It’s faith which shows hope the weigh and ways down the image in nations from witch inspiration plots. It’s a con fused together with a spect that a human will inspect searching this righting heart. The life is in the blood? Respect.
Without faith it’s impossible to pleas God constantly AWL with the hope of some cult-you’re-all inspired to mimic. And I’m-your-AWL threw and through with it. Past tense in two piece polar from the separate shun semi-hemi spheres refusing to fight.
I hope.
Fictive Whispers 