Ask
and you shall stir the gas, you immigrants. The documentary has been inverted
and turned to show off your six o'clock features. We need to talk in detail
over the course of a November hot pot. For example, the misery of the blow-up
doll will traverse the narcolepsy with spy counting gradually selling itself
back to a decimal point. The banjo is refused in most localities of European
marrowbones. Down the road there is an id escaping from the beauty of a miniscule
moment like blood from a thirsty sawn-off shotgun. It's such a lovely Grecian
drum, it never seems to land for long enough these days. Soft shoe, shoe,
vertical, up. English division escalating, ticking and ripening the clothes on
your long leather back. This is a drawbridge but don't stand on it for long. It
doesn't need much more than a few shakeups in order to break seventy bubbles in
inordinate sequence. The quest for outlying pages continues.
The
urn qualms, quizzes the thrush with Austrian pedantry that eventually
transmogrifies into Australian semblance hurt. Hmm, hmm, hmm, him, hmm, hum,
ho, hoary, hmm, hum, him, hem, hemmed. Minder, minder, blasting bleak positrons
at the aftertaste of my left wing nut. You could really spurn those thighs with
radiant buildings and the angles they go on to inspire through definition.
There's nothing sarcastic about the water or its timely dystrophy. It's all
really very avant-garde if you let it into your dandelion bound soul. I really
think you might free yourself up to the Tibetan hockey stick leisure activity.
I can already feel the lump in your throat as if it were my own, handling a
rather spicy pizza without the cheese spreading to the sides. No mushrooms
please. You're trapped and skittish but at least you're still absolutely
invaluable.
Of
the options we had, we could have doubled up and started a revolution. Who
knows what the matches will make of the shovel in the park? It's small and
Southern and requires a plug attachment to fit it into the appropriate electrical
outlet. The thing lurks on a train and that train is trapezoid. Or parallelogram?
Who would want to know such a nosy fortune? Hey, it's happy hour and we're all
out of gentleman's attire. Got a few jackets going spare though, the lying kind.
Don't
mind me. Don't graduate. I'm just going home to wear a ring and think about my
seating position. Laminating this moment seems poignant but I'll resist just as
I'm sure you'd resist arrest while busy doing one of your delightful sit-in
protests. It's like a sandwich really: me and you with the salami and greens in
between. Just one electromagnetic jolt and we'll edit the forceful trace into a
perfect piece of pap yet. Five metres to go and we'll be at the walkabout
station to manage the leg mentions accordingly. Everything must be in close
contact alliance, everything must jack up the vegetarian option with finely cut
bed sheets.
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