12/07/2013 - A PERFECTLY BREATHABLE ATMOSPHERE

                A perfectly breathable atmosphere is a bizarre thing to behold. Good grief! The synthesizer! It's not exactly going on but Justine will fill the aforementioned troll with prompt whiskey results. Who wants to manage the mirror of marriage mirage? It'll explode! Surely! The pipe organ is griping with its grind and walls out the corruption. I caught a whiff of conspiracy in the vegan meeting, the kind you stumble on in the smart darkness. It's a vast interior constantly folding in rational positions. As good as they foretell, I'd say. Who are they? They are the Themes of Egyptian Lore, the Hierophant's Morticians, the Morose Viking Warrior Queens of Next Fortnight. Beware their exaggerated touch, it'll melt the mask right off of your domino face.

                In the meantime let's start the transfusion: the Master Kin has bought us enough time to resurrect the principle so that we may joust with its wet end and twirl our girls along the caskets. That's your girl and that one over there's my girl, by the way. We objectify according to distance and you'd do well to stay the course. It'll engage and tilt for as long as this great piano concerto bounds along its auspicious axis. The name of the brewery was Stanley Mystify in case you were wondering. The wolves were good humoured about the entity that inhabited the left side of their bodies, which is to say we had to cut out their canines with blunt buttercup blades. Blood is fiery, their blood in particular. Judgement calls are not as daft as most people think they are, a name is a nose in the race of Manhattan Pastimes. So come on, dear coach: the alpacas are all roasting in the gingery tropes of yore.

                The overbite is so insistent, so demanding when the string instruments decide to come into play and stop distancing themselves from their heritage and the responsibilities that tether them to that particular creed. The welcomes you get tend to be chomping sounds until the buffering starts up proper, until the primates go forth to masticate Saturday prom dates. It's the first one so frisk it with lordly detail or feel the hatred of a thousand wiry old men spread across the inner seam of your thigh. Let's make it a good anniversary for the dead ones.  These ancient gits are decaying and don't like u-bends or u-turns or sparse Americanisms. So long as they last the night with a healthy eye on witticism, then who cares what they eventually turn out? The empress doesn't come down this way anymore anyway.

                Here comes the thorn herself begging with hydraulic knee knick-knacks. It's the same sample every year, the test is a harmonious lakeside party instinct. The beasts climb the stage and don't stop at the curtains or the overhead lighting, they keep going on and on until the chandelier is tempted to let them down with some grace and charm. This is it for the post though. Just tact.