POLAR MOTION OF NORTH SHIPS
The cover is torn off by the squally wind, on the silver fields, by the whirlpool of barren waves. Over distant bowels, lives cold-blooded fox. In the moonlight lighting up and down, moody chill. In a vat of souls, calling for help from a desolate vessel. And fearfully interrupted sadness, crossing the searchlights of the rays, exposing people, illuminating the side of the moon, is inviolable.











