Calligraphy of my love for each
other goes without saying on even the the the the most happening glad spot on
the umpteenth hemisphere. So dry are the tears of up in here anymore, so
extemporaneous and filled with finagled beard hairs from a scrum of backing
choirs. It's a facial hair revolution, facile in its importunity and struck
through with the flat end of a trident. Can the glowing white whiskers of a
dead cat go forth in all their cumulative beliefs to prove I'm not a half-baked
dictator of some foreign humanitarian globule? Can it heck? This is where the
typeface gets out of level, out whack, just under the absolute knack of the
underwhelmed pigtails of tart distrust.
They can always sense me upwards of
nought. They can command the legions with the trumpet call in a vanilla void,
in spite of that vanilla void. Mothers could do something about buying the
correct belch size, they might even hearten the world with a chuck on the charred bloodstream of society's natural
underdogs. This is what we in the industry call hawking wares for the
understanding and betterment of the interred Montgomery. Know when to leave and
you're recognition will be golden and oft foretold in Icelandic paramours.
So much to do with so little breath
and calloused lungs running on cruise control. The device is knackered and I'm
just plain blinkered by the thought that her neck is now out of alignment with
the rest of her cosmonaut callout. We're in here anymore, the both of us and
all the rest of those badge wearing gigglers. The earpiece tells me that the
correct word is gigolos but I'm much too prudish to let such a thing be
accepted by this lovely, lovely consensus. They're so tightly wound that they
wouldn't comprehend the depth of life's gameplay and the way that the wind can
sometimes affect it in a mammalian lurch. There's so much to whittle down to
paper size, so much to widen with the application forms purloined parameters.
I'm going down with a ship that once had a preacher on it but is okay now that
he is gone.
The designers are suffering so why
don't you make it easier for them and whip the wet towel across the splendiferous
dog sniff. Is it the sort of kind that develops gender just to beat up another
party in the most humiliating engagement possible? Seriously, there's nothing
down here to tell us what to hear and what not to grate and grind with. Goblins
are the instructors of this paediatrician's dancehall so we best all swallow
the glum gum and just get to the hotter steps as if they're the lasting
impressions of a tanned neckline on an aircraft carrier. As of now, the
episodic king would like to establish the fact that he is totally hetero and
not in the slightest bit normative, he just really wants you guys to know it so
you'll put him in films.
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