caravashio my mouth

 I was going back to the world because my mouth was Not its own mouth.

His name was caravashio. Born in 1999, He wandered into a baked sale age 11. Blooming wonderful people fractured the sameness.

In a bitter pitiful Italy, flowery as the same dice, They beckoned yellow fliers as a morning disposed. 

This beautiful sane story, all of its faults and mouths, 3 children. I opened His wound, History. 

Then, caravashio drove 4 hours to Sûr Pino Weeno, upon arriving He took out the trunken umberella, pasted and blink, remembered twin peaks, under bullmagnificent suns, His eyes cowered not cowardly and tiny shoes clobbered the soft soils, over again, began to wind a possibility planeted....