The
staff makes up most of the community. They have scratchy deserts inside the
starving elements of their eyes, crying and clawing for fjords that stopped
being the same several triumphs ago. Amnesty. This is the request, the proposal
and the high-level security breach all rolled into one big boulder of
forgiveness. This is the delicious outcome, worry about something else like
literature for instance, the state of sawn-off popular literature for
particular example. It has gnarled teeth and lies around the place on Sunday
night. The hieroglyphs have disproportionate completion to the masses of hints
that hum and make comets out of livestock, the kind that wanders around the
plains and fields for happenings to completely ignore like limitations of
self-understanding. Jokes are often spoken too soon. Time is alarm itself
especially when salted with limestone politicking, blinking red without wild
cards to tuck away down the regardless drain. Go get help with courageous pat
downs at the microphone. Everything is under my control now, I am the score
board and am doing well with my calculations.
There
is something to be said about ladies and gentlemen with cleaning appliances and
durance testing that weathers makeshift dogma with doctored photographs of said
dogma’s mother-in-law in vitriol. The tunes on the bag pipes are recordable but
the tune passes out somewhere down the line to show its forbears up and out of
the elevator space. The garter belt is rescinding its last statement of
controversy with great woe and no mean placidity, something has happened and
the men of town want to adopt the term ‘folk’ for fun before the women get a
hand in. Marriage leads to significant reconnaissance. So what happens now? A
thought in morbidity that is such a posterior shot of perspicacity. That’s the cameraman;
he has fairly deft jobbing material. These are his shorelines, the ones he
bought from the business executive whilst he was selling off his stock in the
hopes that it would lead to a three-part harmony and a sweet deal as a trophy
wife somewhere in the Peeling Trivia Storm. Standing up to toughness is as
guarded a response as transience in electrical mendacity that crushes farm
reportage in silent spirals with flowering forests and salty blocks of venomous
hillside antics.
Plumes
are mitigating standard from circumstance just to hear every heartbeat with
hands of steel and clatter bugs that waste torpidity on the electric machine. The
ice cream flavours are as clean as the air, pea soup and just as unjust with
fixable injustice and the plugs that follow in the back. Be taken aback with
custodial staff, the ones who bathe themselves in hurrah and corny winds. Leaving
would constitute a hardship, the column’s ascorbic activity that kills every
minimalist thinker and every one of his/her creatures by denying them their gym
membership. Sad keys. The sound of scurrying makes knuckles slump and the cream
serenades under the porch like muscular contractions. These are the cellars of
our prisoners, the carnival.
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