05/08/2013 - WHAT A COUNTDOWN!

What a countdown! What a daily murder among the tubular elderly! Can the day make such a difference, ache for such a difference? Can they twist the curtain rail into new and fibrous shapes? The piano keys rumble through Little China and gain aesthetic dependence, a weakening racial dispute where Friday is the date of concern. As we all are, are we our own hot spot, hot button, hot cake Gibraltar sabre-rattling? It’s swell, oh boy is it swell. The threat could be against the wall or up beside the inquisition, slaying airspace with political promptness and concrete blocks. The rolling is artificial beyond this sovereign point, it releases its energy with candle spats.

Crickets are prior to their own boldness, privy to their own brand of lap burgers and could be the answer to their own habitual premise. I hate to leave you in a distasteful fashion but shucks aren’t meant to be walled off now, are they?

Hooray for the platform to denial! It’s time to egg on those who are hateful in my sight! Can’t you try and understand the skiver fortress with big shameless rocks? Like me? You cannot spend your life regretting every transgression your murderous wife ever made on an orange pilot. First you loved her, then you lost her and now you’re discovering the true reason why there are clouds in your sky. At least the dental German shines in the non-reflective spaces in the hopes of recovering his sports car and the patriotism he kept handy in his glove compartment. The bite loses its availability overtime but don’t tell him, he’s far too useful to suddenly fall into depression. I draw from his personal field of shipmanship and the resounding audiogrumpstark static business. I lost all that corn bursting footage and, as a result, half the relevant discussion. This shit is cussing stupid.

Don’t be ignorant when out in the sunshine, it hurts the llama with wishing well brickwork so please don’t be ignorant. The girls would have to squirt lion eye gunk directly into the heart of the primary sandcastle. The prospective action will throw me off the back of a healthcare lorry of majestic grounding. The originality of this gregarious trick is a baby face during the big boom of the Banal Colloquialism of 1981. Your bonuses are described as iconic and forged in manatee steel. That sort of shit comes from the bedside of only the richest turtles.

Throw me the horn and we’ll see what Belfast does to the next part of the next level or TOMORROW as we often reckon it. I can’t be a blue screen of death, I can only be a commodore communist who literally holds temporary files with his fingertips. If you’re hung up, you’re fucked. Your vomit is black and your address has switched to New Jersey, a bombed-out New Jersey. The warthog cometh with spirited spearing marksmanship and he’ll be back. He’s always back, always heading up the stairs and northwards.