The sadness of a penny being dropped
from underneath the coating of a subzero time capsule that whirls around and
around because the video count has been dwindling and the wind will never stop.
They yank out their CDs, the spectators, and make grand deals with the
handshake chiefs and their seedlings that follow them around with long and
winding contraptions that apparently resemble tropes from the little babies
mouth. The female characters are not quite as extreme as they once were and
have opted for co-opting the foolish, happy few who band together and perform
heroic deeds without the necessary requirement of toupees. This wouldn't be the
first time that the government has lied to us.
The
audio contact is cool because of its incessant need for making famous literary
characters disappear via the storage lift. All that cranking and lonely tippy
comeuppance that fills the ear with roaring delight and not a jot or spot of
shame. Bad blood is always a rich drink, too rich for comingling with my
heavenly, delectable blood. The saviours regularly donate. It's a smattering of
trouble for the dribbling police tide that undulates with certain black biros
in soapy porridge. There's something to the effect that inspires the
aspirations of transpired unduly. The sorrow, oh long the sorrow! The fractions
and the sickened go off individually and come back hand in hand with their
strange bedfellows and each other like some sort of epidemic ring.
The
waspishness you contain within that birthright of yours will be the undoing of
your unduly activity that lives by what it releases. It's the right channel but
the wrong time to be alive in a robed universe. What else is new? The dog's
tail is as sharp as its nose and sweeties make the shadows all the more zen
with none of the retail price reduction. The ambling of prince minders are all
that I can tell you about from my privileged place in the sand. The box is
prickly and the prickles have eyes that exude ears and other pheromones. The
old ladies are sweet for the prime minister because he desires it to be so,
because he sends out all that propaganda for his unquenchable spirit. How
vainglorious! The war lives like a wart on his shoulder blade, temperance
rocking about on his heel like a sloppy mole. The respect they give you is 100%
pure Egyptian cotton that polls the doodles and adds aspect to recovery.
The
one that erases the past will be the one to wear the extra leaky shirt on his
simplified mathematical back. The digits will break through the breaks in the
fabric and mangle the possibility to its very data core. The cumbersome tail of
yellow-hearted liberals won't even provide an auspicious moment in Exeter. What
can we do but stuff our meagre faces with malleable money bloats that don't
even rhyme with the stems of marigolds? What else is there to trespass against
and when does the series start anyway?
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