Come up slowly, from above, sink up from below the ground. I'll rise down to below ground level, the pages and words belong together, we'll bury this instumental. The crow's nest was in a palm tree outside L.A. North. Below what's written, the source of crises, petty fantasy, bad decisions. Exit here, while these rich a******* spit from their castles, this page was left empty purposely, and I'm not too moved by what I've seen: Deception, Loss, Crises, Divinity, Cloistered Children.