You
can know too much of the melancholy tune, being a parapsychologist on the
lookout for maternity wards. At least the compound rejected the absorption
tests with corporate takeaway chow. Please call at my hotel and see just how
deep the dictionary can get, and just how sodden at the pages. I apologise for
such poetic license and would like to offer you a drink. You make it sound so
menacing so go ahead and sit your lanky rolled-up calling cards down on the
concerto sofa. I’ll be seeing you from behind runic symbols. These hands have
magic powers by proxy like a cigarette under a witches spell. I must speak to
the baggage handler about that, or the doctor. This is a pure case of
autosuggestion.
Maybe
we can be so foolish with our welfare just like the chemicals rubbing off in
the pockets of thank you letters. How would you like to be friendly with
rudimentary problems? I don’t do interviews with guys that aren’t journalists
from the bridge, this standing around business pays too well for me to just
accept anyone’s invitation to talk and talk and talk in circles. Again the man
with the van dyke cannot be trusted with the demonic possession rate, he’ll
sink all the magic tomes in his tainted proposition. It’s a delight to see you
with village children being nice to Santa Claus. Before you see me, your uncle
must weep with great principle. Mother would do far better to hold onto ice
cream.
He really ought to be married
to a top hat with Nordic snakes. Not a bit of it. I refer to the remarkable
work of strange and terrifying creatures called the Life Decipherers. Any known
language would be too much like witchcraft if it was a twilight
differentiation. Can you see the wonderful practice going on in this corner of
the transformer lines. You’re so right but how to prove my point? Exposure on
southern winds. Howl while I become the plaintiff for once in my tiny,
salmon-dotted life. I’m really not the man I say I am in England
Your
death will be time allowed by the stickler cards. Mental disintegration will
drop the way out for something more akin to the vagrant and how he sees the
world. You could be the centimetre and I could be all the words you can’t quite
pronounce stuffed in a run-on sentence. Can we be anxious in the foyer for a
while? I’ll see you with hope in the holes and the yellow grange of your lovely
party wide open and somehow balding. Uhuh. You get nothing for nothing and
followers do it out of pure and pricey fears. It’s not mine to be
sociologically cruel but the restraints will open the glass of milk and
supernatural sleep. Eh. Come along with direct cause and we’ll touch up the
hairnet. Where on earth is this remarkable prediction now?
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