The act of the elves was
unconditional, it taught us all about the art and form of telling in a new age
of satisfactory results. Appreciation is an outmoded probability, a deprecated
piece of foliage under the numerical footfall of man's design. Where do we go
from there, as opposed to here? It might be a superficial, supercilious question
but it's question that plagues on and on until you do something to make it feel
wanted and appreciated and regarded in some theoretical light. It can be a
shard of a beam or a whole spotlight for the eye teeth but it has to be
glorified or else the lions will come to peck out our lungs with handwritten
bridges tucked behind their claws.
Afterwards I suggestion we call the
local council to see what they stand on and for how long depending on heavy
rainfall and possible flooding. It's the sort of inquisition that won't take up
more than five minutes of a gentleman's boredom time so these chaps will just
have sit back and bear the contingent grins that will be blazed in their
general direction. The wearers of these grins are patient men, luckily for our
council chaps, and usually won't spill out all their content on a red-eyed
contestant at once. Memory whitens and the march rattles on with indignant
pause and laughing glasses. Just give up ten mean minutes of the time to follow
this particular advertisement to a cult that will sanctify and sort itself into
a religion in its own right though still with jelly legs beneath their
ceremonial hems. They've given up on the leg and the women are following up
their petitions with one more unabashed proclamation of messy grammar.
You're sweet and you know you are
because the marriage license wouldn't find you any other way. Be sure and
supple and the world will hike up your irreverence like the naughty vicar it
is. Or maybe you'd prefer to look north to the hustled dentist or west to the
neighbour who just so happens to be a tyrant and a sinner? Inspiration pops up
everywhere and rarely accounts for itself in the correct caricature. After the
talk of seasons is over and done with many children return to the dust their
father's came from and whistle about typhoid until the forthcoming invitation
of the Last Great Backgammon Tournament. All you'll say is wow, that is the
password and literally all you will ever need to say while up there. Capture
the first one in a tincture, it's the freshest and provides the most interesting
optical illusions that will impress the dying and ripened. These are monsters
with wilful points and protracted personal positions on most claptrap arguments
of the heart. Get your drink, grab your gripe, fasten up, buckle down, let your
hair down further or higher and give up to the creature of all your cuddliest
habits. Haemophilia shouldn't have to be like striking gold when the rush and
the fever have past and you're hurtling past the seats.
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