Eight reconditioning sessions with
the boy and the girl and their inwardly-bound faculties. They drain out the
boat with the false man's moustache and scuppering is still the grimmest way to
make concentric holes. We believe in unholy standing laws, we believe in
building with the further questioning and lazy reasoning of some cousin with
his feet in tatters. Can you find a personal case of latency in all the jungle?
Eleven
debriefing sessions that cogitate the codgers for the kiddies and there you are
in the bridal suite. You've grown up quite a bit with the maximum luncheon
splayed across the table and the smarmy talk plaguing the overhaul of our
dearest pastimes. I know we can make good on our foul play promises but the
stronger the foresight, the fuller the upper body. Milky thighs and drowning
expensive motor cars have become the new national sports. I'm going to get you
drunk with the width of my private room and most of its archipelago.
Production
of evidence happens only twice with walking sticks and being put out to sea by
officers of the law. Please don't be so old-fashioned, in fact watch out for
that kind of perfect accusation. That temper has reduced itself to a knock on
the door with the knee in the night. It will always be above the oaf to notice
such things. I coin this phrase entirely out of politeness, confident that you
will comprehend the items well enough love its danger at a safe and cordial
distance.
We
don't want reminisces in Shepherd's Bush. Take, for instance, the shiner at the
corner of your top lip, it's busted and the AI is working on it as fast as we
can speak. The finer details, they are saying; well he is saying, she is busy
napping in the bathtub, waiting for a reason to destroy a pink castle with lambasted
pentameters. In the meantime he is working out the traffic of electricity in
your head, trying to work out a delicate through route in order to simplify the
causality before it really winds out of control. You've had some bad thoughts
about mail bags, haven't you? Riding on a letter in the hopes that it will take
you as far out of reach from the sick woman glancing at her sick child as
possible. It is the puffiness of the yes, isn't it? Around the eyes. We both
know they're Mormons but we still don't give much of a fuck in practicality.
You're eyeing up the jewellery while I'm consulting the doctor. She's singing a
hymn through the suds so I suppose it's quite fitting.
This
is the last train stop before the laboratory runs out of steam and slowly
churns through the long and laborious process of outsourcing the world. Sharks
and snarls and the fluttering of track record particle movements will sooth you
to your simpering simian fate. These are the helmets they were planning on
using. Isn't it rather quaint?
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