I'm not one to illustrate the script
for you. Arcades are my thing, the place where I put my high feet up and fiddle
with my toes. It's just a joyous place to snap the wavelength, to tinker with
the visor plants. Classical languages are rather spectacular when run through with
an electrical current, I suppose that's why the submarine is a waste of carbon
dioxide. Let me be thrown away like easy waste and a powerful eighth, I need
the geothermal energy. A convergence of two tectonic plates eliminates my narcoleptic
goddess with a hotspot of geyser lust. It's the most Parisian thigh I can think
of, I can contemplate.
Who says that still is the latest
underwater restaurant? Liberalism on the San Francisco Bay. You know one should
always have seventy irons in the flaming furnace of restoration, it's a
practical outlet for emotional disposition. When do we go to the almost never?
Why only sometimes? The answer is cheetahs! Approximate Cheetahs! Nothing here
is truly itself when the crutches come down in subtle judgement. Wear the
kingmaker with Gods on a belt, latch them into the fastened place and watch as
the cylinders shout their African hellos. Do not see the Lords or his/her endings
of speech. Feel ready/thrust loneliness/choice age/never go west/always
wander/form attachments/let them go/possess grand speak/see the chisel/remember
however/go psychic like auras/great hate/strangers passed/weapons of
product/chemicals nigh. The blown and the left are vengeful ghouls. Mastodons
and I take light and blunted instruments to the tortured tormentors of defeatism.
Grapple me with mark masters, do the Charleston and match the eaten jamboree.
Was she nice to be a lasting impression, a honking fiery wench. I attend to the
task in hand and listen hard. Tampers are against me, just like the linear
beings in their beats.
The vectors see the real goggles
slapped on aslant faecal matter, resist my consequent urges and heard out fear
knots. The wintery cloak parts the eulogy with logical standards and empty
prevailing. Please don't prattle on about the odyssey, please go out and fetch
some garbage bags before the co-ordinates turn to Hindi. My castle is falling
like a beautiful dream in dank neighbourhoods. How to forage has never been so
in demand, has never been an hour in the making. My hands are wrapping each of
the buttons in a cocoon of silken hemp but they can't last the whole ninety
yards of misfortune.
I am old and beholden to the
computer speak, to the Javanese witter and the Mesopotamian lark. I wish that
this wasn't as great as they say it will be but that is for the furniture to
decide and not for the deadly piranha of parted blinds. It's a cause to snore,
a powered down party that engulfs the very essence of an outcry, smothering it
in its own precious brand of blackened milk. The velvet guns are readying the
battlements, the gunners are out the back having a quick tea break before proceedings
come to blast their skulls away.
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