If you're a diva then grant the sideline
in case of mutual disaster areas merging into a parallax. Surreptitiously tell
that certain someone to shove the vertical axis up their perpendicular sunshine
holder. She'll hold your hand all the way despite all the first rate cussing
she'll lash out matter-of-factly. There was certainly a last time, off Gate 3.
Coming back down is the real bitch, the trickster's southpaw adventure. And we never saw him again. And we never
slapped his wife either for litigable reasons. It appears that life is a
non-profit radioactive stench monger, the rare sort that doesn't care to be
disagreed with. Helixes make for fine coffee machines in its shadowy wake-up
call. Don't ever be a prince within its sight, not unless you want to see
eleven thousand angels crap their essence into tuberculosis cups. Trust me, not
a sight for sore eyes in this day and month.
Whatever happened to Project
Cactus? Was it cancelled because of its atypical dress sense? Was it shunned
for not draping haggard matriarchs all over its trilby? Was it shunned because
it could not stand the humour of certain haemophilic? They say there is a howl
to be heard just off the junction out towards its home beacon. They say it
speaks of scarecrow lambasting and epithalamium scams. It really does turn the
churning stomach into something without any acidic factor whatsoever. Then
again this is the old system we're talking about here, there were ration books
for every little pointless detail. Dental offices were much more opaque and
filled with aquarium hats. They said the traffic piled up and piped down in
front of the gaping maw of knighthood there. They said there'll be snow in the
summertime and liars in the vestry. This room was made for stripping, not
entrenching desperate misanthropy. Wear your own damn hat if so absolutely
inclined.
Either way don't download this
Tao, it's filled with temporal fastidiousness and all sorts of liquorice loss. Midwifery
has lost all sense of vocation there, it has become an excuse to wear blue
clothing with white frilly bits sticking out of the top and sides. The caps are
no longer in play but that decision was made long before the big bite down. Tunics
that were eyesores and crotchety grandstands are all that's left of the sites
to rattle around. Tragedy comes in limpid chunks of gooey iris. Promise me
you'll never seek out the jabberwocky perfume, promise the Gods even but only
when they're looking in the right fucking direction for once. Yeah, cloud
people, I'm chatting about you! Get your damn ears on for once in the inept
hyphenations you call stages of immortality. I am known for my half-brothers
and their insistence on daydreaming in the middle of inch tape. Foxes clamber
out of the inception to jump on and latch themselves to my airy-fairy beatitude.
Trust me when I say I am a good
man. Trust me when I declare the renewal of Project Cactus. Long may it
supersede.
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