The time is told by the ticking tumblers on the tiny timber door that traverses through the threshold to the truest tribrutary of this soul.
The trouncing thumping tone of the traducers timlessly trepidate my temperance and try my tenderness to test my trancendence as they turn the tide and the tone of my term with their timeless trouncing upon my tiny timber door, that takes me to turning points trifiling treverse.
They trepidate to triumph that which traps them and tenures their hearts, to turn themselves loose to trancend to their own transitory relief.
Truly whether triumph or terminent the traducers will try to trepidate till their trap rings true then this timid heart will be tossed and they will track new tokens to tax, new turkey to tool out their transitory touch of trancendence.
The trouncing thumping tone of the traducers timlessly trepidate my temperance and try my tenderness to test my trancendence as they turn the tide and the tone of my term with their timeless trouncing upon my tiny timber door, that takes me to turning points trifiling treverse.
They trepidate to triumph that which traps them and tenures their hearts, to turn themselves loose to trancend to their own transitory relief.
Truly whether triumph or terminent the traducers will try to trepidate till their trap rings true then this timid heart will be tossed and they will track new tokens to tax, new turkey to tool out their transitory touch of trancendence.
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