Sweet
delicious idiots on the gradient are beekeeping to pay off their significant
debts. The riddle they caused, still transpires to this day and makes little
girl soldiers of us rough folk. The location is Nordic walking and the method
of transport is warped forehead. The voyage from therapy to astral projection
is one that chases translucent mints into gory-kneed oblivion. What the fuck is
with the snow cone machine? Make hay while the bitch tries to solidify seven
feet of ice cream. Resurrecting the hole and the cheerful chirp of idealism
instantly marries the two together and sanctifies their union in sure fire lemonade
destruction.
Sweet
delicious idiots mark the profession with their cry of togetherness, their
yeasty bellow, their defunct property. The Russian Formalists did their best to
keep these people under wraps but the potato rapture occurred nevertheless and
cut off all sense of probability happening in this new and turbulent pile of
Argon Crystals. The diamonds come from a hard place that even our martyrs
refused to talk about. They always preferred enacting vengeance on the cherubim
and seraphim, sort of like the icing sugar on the final telescope pointed
towards midway housing districts. A la.
The
American Cargo keeps us alive and well preserved in the sauces of its own
pleasant disposition. It does have its brickwork minutes but not enough to
inspire a man to carry his own harpoon in his wife's gusset. The depth is
phantasmagorical and does wonders for the complexion, particularly if you're
used to a commoner's diet of horse shank and piano tooth. The theorem here is
not to be grasped but disturbed from its place and origin in the thorny
wallpaper. Shriven and yawning, Erasmus goes out onto the sand beach and passes
out in front of blind expectation in the hopes that his hygiene will vastly
improve because of it. He is, of course, a fanatic and deserves consecration.
The
American Cargo ruptures the legion with its own brand of comical styling and
legendary semantic stretching exercise regime. The rubber tips come free with
the quote and don't you ever let any sucker tell you any different, my son.
Neil might be a smooth talker but he's not specialist when it comes down to the
nitty gritty spasmodic modifications of modifiers. He really does live in Hull
and yes you should feel he's right about some things these days. Miracles are
bound to happen when you live in ketchup patterns and unthreaded tartan
carcasses. The breathing room is not altogether comprehensive in nature, it is
essentially a basically. If you were to ask your Mother about it she would
refer you to your local GP and make him sponge you until you keep quiet about
any further ventures in sick musing.
Sweet
delicious idiots abuse the American Cargo and leave it no better than netted
trash bags, bursting through meshes and bulging in its own rotten romanticism.
Sweet delicious idiots ride in the back of the American Cargo and shoot up to
Dixie.
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