11/05/2014 - HE DUMPS THE TAP/A FAUCET/COMMAND FUNCTION

He dumps the tap/a faucet/command function. He gets the choppers away from the boys by rearranging the airspace, just to be titanic and sure-footed. There's a storage unit in the locality, it writes game codes by means of apology for all the times it deemed to climb into the woodwork and got its figurative hands real dirty. He doesn't do much more than is required of him anyway, he drinks coffee and reads Beckett for literal value. He wants nothing more than lie about downtown with an unidentified man. The security cameras are trained to pan around him like loving chocolates on melted blueprint pillowcases. It's a fox to hold off, it takes the tail and a Mexican to back up. Did he have any felonies? On spring break? Feed the replies to the problematic services.

Sensors are out for dinner, away to lunch, getting drunk on Italian cheese and European flinging. You are a conduit for candelit dinners and harsh turns, everybody says to him, almost as if werewolves will tell the US Military they're yellow fanged secrets from the mind of a glory bean so that they might tuck them into pristine bags of sleepy Boron material. This is the synopsis, the escaped convict with is bucket full of diamonds and the hole that leaked them all out on the pavement. It takes an audience to pull a file of this magnitude. He's got nothing to lose except for drifting flames from his fluoride flak jacket. He decided to risk it all in real estate but found his honour at a diner filled with organ donors and other finished articles.

On this island a man is expected to go to war with one person bruised by a spire, claiming therapy for the curious. Street signs are just not ready for him but he has all the monarchs in his back pocket, each of them chattering away with careful play-by-play. He could have been floating by on a boat, shooting his wife with charge circuits/downstairs problems/ace of jokers for a fool of lists to come along and grift the hearing aid from right out of his curvaceous head. He screws as he sweats, he plays the news broadcast teams for the chumps that they were with Bible logic and doesn't write off his own entrance and departure by the same 5 o'clock bus. Just get out and go along with the loud crunching gear, that's what he says to himself as he tries to break into the turning of bank produce stands. Baby girls talk to him and disarm his lobbyist contrivances whilst standing in the hallway for the time it takes to shatter a glass ceiling. He has the same situation under press control. Suck fumes until he does, suck fumes for the mayor. Stop counting the days, he commands the sieges that afford him no boudoir privileges, stop away from the tides and our adaptation of that play you really like might actually work without putting a dint in the budgie.