The day, the day, the night and the afternoon - they open
themselves out into superlative traipsing schemes that demand the attention of
all poor interpretations of yeomans and their best friends from Skipton. Each
has a maw that goes hawhaw and their sticky tape fingers bring all futures to
an inherent conclusion that shatters with a dragon snap and an engorged
sequence of numbers that keeps itself from going mad by screaming EIGHT at
every possible juncture though mostly for the sake of the children. They are amassed in the internal structure of
a hypodermic whale and we're all just here to observe its life signs and decide
on their vitality to the project and maybe dilate some of the produce with our
ring fingers whilst being equal to each other in every possible way. Prepare
the colanders. March on for tea and grace and the paste that holds them
intrinsically together. It's just like the spittle of a walking dog, walking to
its bony-limbed fatherhood. Get in the convertible, grab onto the leather
interior and let's strap over the highway with our own unique and plucky brand
of justice. It's tinged with tragedy because that sort of shit never really
gets out of your clothes and we want to be remembered long after we have
overproduced.
All
in all it's a quiet day on the battle front and the aliens are busy working on
chemical solutions for the indestructible paradise's preservation and
inclination towards the tenth hour of every day. This is the higher education
and we all pay for it in our own way. You pay for it with your handsome looks
and I pay for it with my tripod and its unified species of progeny. I am the
quest for all kinds of unholy endeavours and that is what made me popular in
school, all the boys want to have their soul annulled. Shake the mote with real
life dress tumbling and the actual jars will ascend to the rank of comrade by
existing on a simple uniform theory of quantum mechanics that doesn't fit so
comfortably in its inky black dress. Your adoptive parents have done with the
whole holding hands business and have moved onto Jewish holidays, snacking on
the sweaty parts and reminding the hairy parts to condition and honeysuckle.
How
far have you got with the presentation? Could designating the might of a
generation redirect the potential flow of political discussion, if only for a
while? This is the car. The car is for sitting in and being ridiculous about
the length of its doors will get you nowhere for no change at all. That is the
sound of a signed performance and the presentation will drip drop like pennies
on a blanket, straining its typographical heart out for ambulances to come.
Sticking to it? Sticking to it like an adamant protector of underwhelmed
architecture. Nobody's particularly bothered with the katana or the other half
of the wedding. The grey haired man either.
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