André Alexandre Sousa

welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, well. to what do i owe the extreme pleasure of this surprising visit?

this once serious musician has since then found himself dancing in leider hosen, making love to inflatable sheep and dressing as a cheap prostitute.

if complete and utter chaos was lightning, then he'd be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armour and shouting "all gods are bastards!".