Echoing the sounds from his shin bone on the passageway made from linoleum.
Get no age you, and get no rot me, shooting together on the photo sticker machine.
Attending my deathbed, on my mother's knees, her knee-high socks putting on.
5,000,000,000 years later, the earth must burn out, to that time we will be bored not to have anything to do.
To be inclined to, knowing better than to eat dead bodies, no pretas at all.