139ers War Zone. Cookie Lady forged a full nightmare jacket (VI).

Off the halo, Cookie Lady,
we’re falling down and trimmed off about our sprinkled dream in counterlight near the circumferences of a high velocity bullets through our corroded ribs, simple entry point, unknown sized of exit points, our souls slammed down with a corpuscolar haloed debris near a dimmed indigo light flanked a Cherenkov flare along the inner shell shock defragmentation, we sat shoulder to shoulder near a speckled terraced soil of the 139, can you hear me Cookie Lady, near the white noised and sub raged hailstorm?