Warrior
of the fuselage, tyrant of the ash, vehicle of the deacon. He was all these
things and this here eulogy will make you beg for the trees to return your fine
coats. Normandy got axed from the running and the host is currently clapping
his cards together. Truly amazing. Seven. The doctors in the audience are one
by one collating data for the betterment of this death sentence. Cuts marvel at
blithering flesh and make pencils the fiercest probability in the running. When
teeth become insurance, the pocks thrust cabins into the inner-city cuticle
spaces.
Exhaustion
ties the time stream down to a shadowy box where all the plumbing merchants
seem to get their ideas from and go in the long run. Pots and pans bruise their
rosary discussion with utility and sense of bordered-up troubles. You have to
wait that long, you have to lurk past the veins to blind the laughter properly
and exactly. Stuff will turn out. Stuff always turns out awry. There's
something in here with the four poster bed troglodyte.
Go
to sleep and reap the shades and all their murky glass one line persecutions.
Perspiration is not an often done thing for the chocolate chest no pants dance
of foggy measurement. Usurp the burial and you'll lose points with the ladies
drastically. No toilet roll exceeds the grasp of bloody foreheads. Women go
first and don't get set on fire for their trucks. The joined ones instead cut
off oxygen with their repetitive cult defiance and penchant for pistola
crutches. Writers are gnawing off the placemats with a crying sensation we call
product placement in our various circles of thinking. Milk spews from their
mouths as they make off with the final debt to stand in front of them. Oh rainy!
Oh rainy! Oh what in the heavenly japes could kiss this rubbery figure? Ultra
wincing lathers on the trouser press with adoration and frank shock. We're
gonna buy her the buttons to see if her hands still dance with rigour when
they've been lopped off good and proper like.
The
tapping on the chasm slices deep with stalling and not caring about self
preservation or getting the hell out of there as one man to another. Locking up
in cellars fill the milieu with bashful sofa cushions. We'll be fine in our
infancy provided we stick it through to the natural wrap party. We're not going
to pass out in any wimpy purloined turtlenecks. Don't you see they're a
cacophony of slapped around haiku? Kill her if you can, before she suffers
beyond all the capabilities of little girls. Help me be because of you. Hurt me
before I pass out again. Mad people speak in gurgles but I'm definitely not of
that bunch. I babble and pummel through chains to peep like wood shavings in
the end of days. Torment can be like a cold sweat in the middle of a chainsaw
funeral march. Trees and chains and shovels are alike in that sort of way. That
would be a promise if things weren't quite so screwy and ugly-lipped.
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