Oh sweet and achy icebreaker to
the stratosphere, please assist me in my consequential quest for hot wafers and
plundered moose. I starve because I have starved before and now my fast is
coming to a proverbial piss-up. The knitting needles are unravelling the golden
liquid into various contorted shapes, mindless and bereft of chimney sweep
smudges. The answers must be growing off of my coat, leeching off of the
pockets and the sinner's spare button. I am a savant as you have always known
me to be, I have done good things with many virgins in the sunshine of your
casual blinkers. Please save me from the Dales and I shall remain a servant of
your lottery for months at best! The studio is spacious enough for a bullion
like me, surely. The chewable skirts come off and I'm all that I am.
Alongside my many sisters and
brothers and fairy folk, I lost myself into the frugality of the amoebic garden
fences, let down my guard and thumbs for the devastation we have come to resort
to the shivering scene. Like the rest of my people, I have shaven off my
foreskin with bronze necklaces and there was nary a stunt double in sight. We
even approached the tundra once just to see if your reflection was in fact
burnt into the blunt underside. It was not. All we saw were the markings of
tanned arms, of splayed fingers and misshapen nails. I name them whorish knaves
of the divine sentiment, prodigies to their own brand of baked goods! I oust
them with mighty clout! I built the walls to my psyche with their deafening
quadrants. Such a fine and pernicious volume, eleven parameters slowly becoming
their own assistant managers. It's a secretion I told them and now you, a
secretion!
Please Lamp, all that I have
left is a chest cannon and a dainty century to look forward to. I will plea
till the wax has winked away.
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