Thursday 11 July 2013

11/07/2013 - THE PANTHER AND THE MORON

The panther and the moron help each other out so that one can get in the lead and the other can fall behind. There’s something missing here, something that tripped on a finishing line somewhere down the cobbled lane filled with muddy footprints. All will be explained, the police whine, all will be explained when we grab the notepads and press it on your narked off hearts. Oh just wait. Oh just wait. That’s a dark episode to become lost in.

Now the police are realising that they’re fed into the space bison thumper with slow rinds wriggling ahead of time. Were they only filler? Were they the only killers of stars in watermarked deployment? This is a good example of letting character’s breath, especially the no-nonsense chuckle-worthy toffs of the windy measurement of zoom.

There’s nothing to see when the work is put together, the panther would charge and mow down and charge again with a credit card machine close to paw and fangs exposed in front of car spoilers. Basically the definition of his jaw line makes for revolving kids: look at the party for the most part, you’ll find this out. Don’t expect too much of these marvellous stages, they take a mile of childish innocence to set themselves apart from other powerful sedative concepts. Yes.

This is one of the greatest points to be dishevelled by: the availability of oceans does not ask much of the manacled musician, not as much as his poor wife and carpenter. They were right by his side when they came for the musician, they screamed and scrambled as he was brought down to fool Thursday with his complex gauge system and tireless tap dance number. It’s happening and nobody stopped the Brighton Express from ploughing into its own mulch heap. You have a secret for five seconds, approximate WW2 beach passion.

The hold is a scrutiny to be bastardized by. This is the monk of the army of the erstwhile attic of the three-way lock. The moron stumbles down the lever only to discover it is a drainpipe, only to hit the grass and the rain. The writhing burning tooth of swipe. A daddy and a sonny of spidery lips. Who gives way to these mouths of darkness? Never come again, you pitiful red coat. You’re umbra is touching the sacred foam cake, putting its arms around the unsteady surface. The meadow is somewhere between the crumbs, trapped in and blustering about with uniform terror.

She must have foregone the mutual prod of procedure, the moron. She raises her dress and parsecs pass between her fuzzy scissor and the red thread. Examining the dressing gown is like examining part of any old scrap of fabric. It’s perfectly sultry and stoppers the gin and tonic just in the nick of time and without a moment’s hesitation. Bringing her home will be the respectable mend to this blowhard day. Bringing her home will cause her orange tint to filter out the arctic summary from the rest of the steamy equation.

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