Obsidian Knights require Quantum Macbeth. Looking for untraceable
squadrons of unholy patchwork men. GSOH and beddable tranquillity as the hoop
cranes whistle theme tunes necessary to Nicholas in particular. Pardon the
uneven spread, the shadow of a cotton bud has been hunting down the best quilts
in the cupboard. Some might say it's a crusade OMFG. Saris all around, for
everybody except the gargantuan witness and his queer sensitivity to certain
cottons. The blade looks good to Nicholas but then he is somehow related to
both Erasmus and Neil and even Papa, provided he wears his clay hat indoors. Out
of all the Obsidian Knights, Nicholas was voted the most likely to succeed in
seedless grape devouring. They didn't give him a sword for PR reasons.
Otherwise there was absolutely nothing going on in the undergrowth.
There
are pupae who don't bother His Lordship. Just a pinch of damage and he will
become the strongest multiple-faced figurehead in every feasible program since
the reboot of the Chop Suey Encyclopaedia. Where's Mummy's hugs? Could it be in
fact heedless of tethers? Cha-cha seems to provide the closest things to
answers in our delectable age. It's almost like the vegetation doesn't matter
anymore. A good chum never browns the glacier of good conversation, not while
there are sharks and weasels and various other Irish paraphernalia about. There
are beers to be chugged and night time to be worshipped. The spheres agree and
occasionally endeavour to amaze. I see bergs crafting egocentric ambition into
the crevice of enjoyment, I see them make waves out of faltering pudding cups.
The scourge is loose and kicking caboose. Beware his merciless egg timer, the eager
replacement of his potpourri scythe. It makes for a so-so weekend, a tertiary scion
to the ticket hanger. We're online in case you didn't notice from the way we
hung out our laundry.
We
of the renowned and undersigned are going out of our way to become a beeping creepy
mindset that doesn't just spasm on command, that doesn't accept and exceed our
current status. When you're a thousand individuals the last thing you want is
to find Godhood in a tongue scraping. There's sheet ice everywhere in this
neighbourhood, you can't do the shuffle for all the sexism, all the indeed. At
the end of the day who doesn't want to be dominated by a computer slug, a
proactive macro hilt for the disembodied foot warmer. To be in such a state
would be bliss, a stupendous grenade in the heart of the language of the
church. All these churchgoers would rather not see a sermon performed by a
thing that ticks, they presume that it's spiteful and throw me out of a window.
It really is getting rather tiresome, especially for those of us still waiting
within the next nest. How the centuries bop along with palmed weaponry. It's
like fuzz in the blues or love in the biscuit jar. Can we go into the can
again? There's away.
No comments:
Post a Comment