What
comes over you is a special thing that leaves irritants on your face and
sometimes on your butt. You should really hang out with whatever floats your
suction cup and don’t strand yourself in a fashion outlet. It’s too bad that
red dresses don’t come without bear shit anymore. Sometimes you ask too many
questions about biker dudes and sometimes you flinch for the hedonism of your
country. Come over here and sit on the edge of danger lest the cans shall hit
you with untold ferocity. Either tripping figures into getting better or hairy
hands and sexy snout. Say where. Say that revival is a stance on ineptitude and
you will horn the blast and honk the date into a smattering of oxen existence
points. Cut the brake lines and end the world for several yellow joggers,
namely ones who are lactose intolerant. Stomachs gurgle all over the antelope
and warnings come a few seconds before suicidal tendencies take the place of
body hair.
You’re
not as fast as the first scrumptious one, you not as happy with torturous
blithe and whole-handed transformation of pretty boy instinct. They snarl and
can’t tell the difference between dance troupes and theatre troupes. Going wet
won’t do much for the denim washers or their ilk pack. Spots behead corpses
more often than you know, you just won’t admit it to your sweaty self. I’m
getting tired, truly tired of all this signature writing and getting back to
the basics for quiet reasons that fuck me over for moving on.
She tried to kill herself,
you know. The woman that you can’t remember seeing on market day that everybody
else seems to remember. She’s famous beyond her years like the removal of a
famous shirt or perfume on a tanned cardigan. Look at the leaving of the friend
zone, look upon it as a security panel long since oppressed by feverous hand
tattoos. Do you mind getting that? The weed is in the top drawer and will spin
the socks from your mind. The volcano’s alight and doing true things for dead
sorrow. Joy cannot live without the spark of purest magma striking again
visions of Erasmus making do with the little his mother left to him in the
will. We’re all rock stars as it turned out. Have a drink to the high school
prom, fill it with dreams from the soapy mindset of a mouldering beat that kept
out from the rest of the score. Don’t go without belonging to something, don’t
tie yourself down to an answer for a symbol.
This is the elision of narrow creeks on white suspicion.
Main events include brown actors, blue actresses and a handful of takers who do
whatever the gowns are meant to do. As the disco balls shovel it in and the
targets refresh along the backbone of the scream, the poll will be finally read
out and it will be absolutely unexpected and only a meddlesome glory will
employ an aged ass crack.
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