The slithering conventions of mortality keep me from
ululating against the grain. It keeps me from sustaining hyperdrive sequences
or quenching the lightning rod effect that suffuses our unlikely memorabilia. My sister had paws and refused to give them up
to an operative existence, refused to triumph over the sphinx's quietude. She
has no nature to tie herself to, nor would I let her near mine. Nature is such
a pleasant thing, don't you agree? Mark this well.
These
trunks are making paternity impossible and unworkable in a multifaith society.
Reactingtomischiefistoreinforcetheaffirmationofmotherandfatherbedroomsusceptibilityyay.
Make sure you put the lid back on before all hell breaks loose and does an unflattering
jig in front of the newly-ordained electron. It's a molecule this time round
and doesn't want any smocks to be flung in its non-face. It wears curtains or
nothing at all. I was new to nudity once but never again. That's life and the
fact is, the fact isn't. Clipboard portents are like a distraction when you're
trying to wash up but nobody is quizzing the bottom rung for its green card
rights. It makes you feel sickened to be a straight-haired loose cannon marksman
without a crackshot quip. My dear is a dork in the daylight and so doesn't
often put on sun tan lotion, only on occasion out of respect for elders who
blister easily.
It's
a complication of the bubble bath, the loafer being dragged over the backyard
without a paid-for audience to speck or spun. This monstrosity is what keeps
our people down, keeps the mothers of the brothers of the Irish lovers of Sin
playing ping pong with only four strings. It's baffling, award-winning and not
worth the platter its kept on. My publishers agree at the very least but then
they're the ghosts of their own bestsellers. They're the thieves of prudence,
the watchmen of naturism. They reside on the right hand side of the autistic
spectrum and wouldn't have it any other way. It's a polite nod to not having
enough hands or truncation.
Mr.
Thank returned to me the other day, returning his Round Tuit and his Cossack
Khan. It's like a love fest round my place at the minute, a Westminster murder
mystery without all the candlesticks and wedding dresses. I left behind a few
clues on a few scraps of loose cotton paper: they'll find it when they're
hungry and lower their principles by a few inches.
But
then you were going overboard, maddening, nibbling, storing, storytelling,
flustering, mincing, dragging, flicking, thumping, wetting, whetting,
burgeoning, gargling the prospects of motherhood and the beaks they tend to
form. It's all a part of the hand-holding process, it leads to boilers boiling
over and nightingales shooting off with their sexist remarks on prejudice. The
walls are scratchy and defaced against the way you touch and by now you should
realise that it is in fact you and her conspiring to make the world a place to
blame and then stuff it in jars. Maybe.
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