Wolves howl at the moon at night in the winter forest
The sun is visible through the clouds, and in the distance there are only mountains
There is a black boomer on the autumn street, the headlights are reflected in the wet asphalt
Daisies in the field are swaying and the chest is crumpled
In the forest there is an entrance in the tree and there is light there
The breasts are elegantly shaped and firm nipples covered with chain mail
The sun's rays are there and play on the hood of the convertible
On the pier where the yachts are parked there is a gray Lamborghini