If
Heaven do think of the venue then office shall get all jealous with its
goodwill lolling out like a rejection slip or maybe some other mark of
resignation. Seize the crown from participating in formula derivation or just
go ahead and tidy away all triumphant jocularity. Turn away from Kelly before
she notices that you got her all wrong: her gender, her identity, her genre,
her pasty white skin that smoothes itself with the tongue of green positioning.
'Tis a parcel, a shagged-out parcel filled with streamers and blackballs and
some semblance of a kingly madness that can't help but be sloppy. The ginger
hair prizes itself. For once in my life I'm not there to witness the terrible
event, I'm dancing elsewhere at 6AM with a girl at a train station who should
be, would be a nurse. And we foxtrot all the way to the platform where her
boyfriend will be coming to spay me with honest Lycopene. You couldn't make
matters more resistant to themselves after seeing my guard fall in such a
rosy-cheeked way, my tyre iron showing and dangling and describing me as a chap
with too much thunder for a head. Sort yourself.
Ring
on ahead for the mental arithmetic, let the nocturnes pray for the sick and
pray on the droves among them. You can earn trial after trial but it won't ever
surmount a megabyte of wattage in the face of an exasperated deity. Uncover this,
you shattered price of deluge. The metal lid is screwed down tight and involved
in precarious thoughts of night and won't do much out in the light and might consult
hedonists in their plight. It's not the deluge you're thinking of, those
microbes constitute a different concept entirely. Pay attention the next time
you go to class, the following situation with scissors and little black
dresses. This is turning into a confessional booth and a right ruddy soppy one
for all the church to see. They'll ask us where we keep the jewellery soon and
you absolutely need to confess that you confiscated it for a higher and fruitier
power. This is wrong but goody, gooey buttress all the same.
If
we really thought about elementals, we would get used to the change in the
breath of a pearl necklace. Life's great coughing fit would end and the primary
earners would march on Olympus with daisy chains and hypothetical nectar
cannons. The war would be bloody but that's needless to say but I still said it
so why not say it again? The war would be bloody. With more emphasis: THE WAR
WOULD BE BLOODY. AWESOME. The sauce would just come running out from between
the legs of Champion League footballers, bubbling all the way to the bank but
not frothing due to a strict religious code of practice that has been held by
the sauce for centuries. After hours of afro spinning, the sauce would sanctify
itself into juice and then just add water.
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