Avid
collectors on conveyor belts sell parts and straps to Arabians that usually
print in axis regulations. The lines of code are very turbulent and defy
political stubs with brief dungaree fashion flutters. The ordeal is teal and
second only to paramount lookalike campaigns. Horses lead the trough, this is
how these things tend to go. The flags are being knocked down one at a time while the mayor sleeps in his inky bed
with his thumbs in most philosophical mores, straddling formulas from the
seventies and upwards. The gardeners will trim the avid collectors for no extra
pence but they will expect a favour from time to time, a blindside and a
purchase without words. You are only fire, sir, there are sixteen free editions
left to be made in your name and the washing up bowl overflows at the very
first sign that your initials are touching the page. These pages are old and
yellow and command water from pristine glasses.
The
patrols are coming out of the glue sticks to show the world that expectation is
really just a qualm for the elderly and the swimmers that rely on their tunnel
vision. Springtime does wonderful things for the active mind, it turns their
second estates into belly-up partitions that advocate reverse slave labour and
reciprocated hunger strikes. Worlds turn on their hands and dislocate their
wrists just to see up the skirt of a stage cleaner and so well. Love is a
direction for artichokes to ignore, and ignore it they do at their own
disparity. The license says much about sex and first name basis in its gay
parade. The experts are throwing down their gritty gauntlets all along the
beaten track to seek the favour of the sidewalk sniffers. It's an ilk thing and
everything is really auctioned off without the doors on.
The
hats are made of paper here and the whiskers are told to sod off at the expense
of a black-ops specialist with their wives stuck in glittery vices and their
sexy side villains trotting around with trout in their grand speeches. Trying
to find a better way is like trying to let go of the anti-virus scan, it would
demean and result in the big burly black man beating you with his dressing
down, the ones reserved for suitcase guests of the number 34 women's magazine.
Shoot it out while I read in this here corner and we'll just see who is
deserving of my top notch algebra lessons and the name of Stuart the Sloop.
They make thrift into dried desert landscape and teenage air raids into riddled
smart guys with tendered allies. Set something to charge for two minutes and
you'll see things with a really bright jangle, like the footsteps of a radio
host guest with giant digits tucked behind the name. This is the breakfast bar
and that is the man with the earring that has come to trust you in spite of
everything. Ah, sweet privilege.
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