13/12/2013 - WAKE DOWN, DEAR PRISONER

            Wake down, dear prisoner. They rigged the sleep exposure engines especially for your benefit so I'd get ahead while you still can get ahead. Whatever you do though, don't tell yourself or anyone else that your necks are safe and that you are in fact Jewish by descent. The curtains fall so vividly for your kind these days, the guards like to be petty in their restive periods. As the blades of maypole laughter nukes the very memory of a lane that I occasionally sail down when there is little else to do with the day other than defy the laws of thermodynamics. The dark matter invites smiles and low-cut v-neck jumpers just because it turns things all black and lovely. Leave everything out.

            You just did what is expected of you, as a pirate and a lame brain. The only difference now is that you're winged and filled with unhealthy thoughts involving sibling rivalries and pedantic crossword puzzle clues. The restive period will outlast the weakest of men provided that their overcoats are wound too tightly around their waists. The heavy scholarship grates with used ripples along the outside of the fiery flesh. This artistic savant is robbing us blind by simply teaching us an object lesson with the back of his surly target. Time of stealing: eighthundredandthreehours. As more and more pupils arrive at the sentimental peaks, the roster steadily increases to pink ringed tackles. After the fishing is gone there won't be anything left to throw about the stomach and tree bark absolution zones. Bend down and respire some tambourines custom-made to rescue the hyphenation. You are the rattle.

            Any kind of dweeb would hold back the choked heart with moist thrift and thrill. I can't get into the corner again either and that's a bit of a bummer if you really think about it for dirty present-wrapping day. The elastic strafes graphic art on its way to visit the many coats of transition. Let bygones be bygones as the spinal column shivers into restorative patterns of freezing mountain air. How regal egalitarian! How slobbery! How three years ago! Let's see your sister in two years time to see if the game is worth saving via chasm description. Let us try the branch as its own tickled death, pickled wreath or make something yourself, you malnourished scoundrels. Belching beef is blowback, belching ham is a hate crime.

            Choose your quest like your rope, with quiet wisdom concocted within eight seconds. They really went all out for charming antiquity. So many shortcuts on the static jobbing front, such super beauty. It sounded painful but in actual fact it was more like a technical consultation during a live broadcast. The cuddles are noted, the handshakes even more so. Error pixelates and the design can be slipped straight off the top of the low-boiling headband. Whoa! Thewingsthewingthewingsthelocationandthewings. I think it's the dance of a swallow landing from a bobsled. Chill the sled and find the ramp with broken blue cheese.