yogi caldet

A glorious band, the chosen few
on whom the Spirit came;
twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,
and mocked the cross and flame.
They met the tyrant's brandished steel,
the lion's gory mane;
they bowed their heads the death to feel:
who follows in their train?






"your mother was an exotic dancer and your sister works at the quafe factory"
innominate nightmare



Мегафон орёт что-то про сдаваться Сдаваться блять, как бы сука не так Сдаваться мы не умеем




If you're fond of sand dunes and salty air
Quaint little villages here and there