The youthful-minded sons of
bitches are out to get the faint-hearted. We know this from the sheer influx of
reports coming in from below the seventy virgins that live on your street. It
is a sad day for Craig and only he can express the depravity with which his mother
will lollop over the bushels. I now possess a forklift for the explicit purpose
of removing these chimpanzees from my water garden. These beasts are a pain for
the leaves that don't quite die and just need a few moments to relax before
getting into it good and proper. The snout is joining over with screws in its
brow. The whole sight is rather saleable for the right sort of customer. Allow
me to elaborate without saying two words about the edges of those holy books.
The Innocent was right about the
day Erasmus left for town. The Innocent has a glockenspiel and will not turn it
against any unarmed child. There are seeds you can use to stop him in such an
unlikely eventuality but it would surely be a waste of potpourri. Blasphemy is
the wilting apricot that exists just on the corner of the stratosphere. The
papers we receive such information from are curling into tiny pin pricks of
humility. They're forming interlocking stick insects and I doubt their speedy
recovery. That is not just my opinion but our opinion. You have no say unless
you drink up the pages. Your hands will be restrained, in any case.
The operative term for my
current stance is 'willing against the breeze blocks'. Magnify this field of
thought you may never return intact. I am forming switches all across my arm
and these switches are bleeding phosphorescence.
Look-y here! Why look-y here!
Ain't this the dandiest thang you've ever seen? Aside from the concurrent
anomaly, of course, but we should have the margins accounted for by next
semester at the very latest. Wires are thickening at the conceptualisation of
such an untendered aphorism. I shall shop for a better state of mind the next
time we aren't so hocked up on goodie medication. Kelly is drowning what she
told me forty afternoons ago. This is probably for the best, if you must
proffer a theory. There is no art to laundry
and sundry winks are the only thing you can come to expect of all this
wavering. It is incessant and I refuse to go into full bloom again without the
proper authorisation of a prince or one of his household.
The discs are running off with
the hedges and the spheres are flattening the children. Tea cups and tea pots
are tawdry misgivings. Grounded graciousness will ascend into flammable
publishable balls of identity. Run along and thank that woman over yonder
later. She might just hang around long enough for the obligatory autographs and
feigned humility but then she might need to split before the horizon lets all
things out. The whistles and the pins and the nightmare rounds belong to
Lazarus.
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