Afterlifeafterthegoodlifeofpeoplewhowearchestplatesdiscreetlyandbetrayfuriousenergyinordertokillthebestspinalcolumnonofferthenweshallbecomeafighterofsomedegreeofworthofsomeinsomniacrushofplatoniclongitudeweshallblazeourengineswithsledgesofbutcheranoraksadnessyouknowwhattheproblemiswiththesekindofjointsnowthecrematoriumsdonotworkanymoreandseemtofindtheirownbrandofhatredandskittishnessjusttelluswhathappenedtothelastshadedcrewonthebackofthisbusitreallywasnotasprettyasmostdesertdwellerswouldhaveyoubelieveitwillhurtjustotseeamanwithabuzzcutofheliumflowingoutofthetopofhiswarriorshipshapedheadit’llhurtallrightlikeacannonburststraighttothearrestedtunnelvision
In
the meantime I’ve deployed a frigate to test the faith of a epic lord marshal,
one who has shown himself to be unsteady on his feet. To kill the saying is to
taint the consensus pool of conspiracy, a body of water that is so carefully
attended by the trolls of our community, the pure and burnt sporadic Lady
Macbeths. The tombs are settling up and walking away forever to see what it is
like at the back of the bald man’s head, a venture that they might not get to
see through more than once. Why, after thirty years, should we recognise the
elemental neutrality? The lord marshal is busy busking on the street to see if
he can make it to his destination with the power of angles alone to carry him
along. He plots a course but realises the complete inanity of such an action,
it is more of an exercise in grief and handy nail-biting.
In
the meantime the cavern is clutching at greyscale in the hopes that it will
grow a nape on its burgeoning neck, a space to become a cool man in naked
chains. The bandages go on afterwards or else seem to go on following the
event. The basket these bandages originate from can be accessed from most
bearded women in towns ending with ‘sex’. There are four ways to snort for
their attention but you really should give subtlety a try, it creates a lovely
breeze.
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