Could
well be life within the old hands, understand? You have nothing worth a boing
or a fixed point in heretical time but that’s not your fault. I crucified your
patron saint and that’s my bag on my face and the bones will rattle well for a
while underneath it. I could say that Caesar told me to do it but then I was an
evil little bastard at the time of deciding and self-destruction was as
misguided as washing my hands entirely of a fairly good chap. He set the rover
going though, did your old saint, he revved up and started putting his way
through to the slices of shards of ingratiated glass that filled the hearts of
many including my nimble self. At least he didn’t turn his cheek or else we’d
probably still be putty today with all the structural integrity of moth-eaten
curtains.
Curtains.
That reminds me of a date that cannot be enlisted, that shouldn’t ever be
corrupted by the meekest carat of gold shining down with deliverance and
mysterious ulterior motives. All the precious metals do it, they have a nasty
temper among them which they hand around and palm whenever the likes of my
people come waddling along.
They
set us up for fall guys to trip over and that’s how Vegas works, baby, the
listening devices are implanted somewhere between your hair and crown. It
includes footage of specially edited seduction from one MILF to another and that’s
not nearly enough for the quick or unnatural as the fire warden likes to call
them. He really hasn’t been the same since the equipment manager. Welding jobs
happen everywhere, you can’t bluff literature readers like you could avid fans
of popular fiction. It’s not really a classic but it does have classic status; you’re
wealthy and that’s absolutely destructive to your more cultured habits; as of
now we married the wrong crossing guard. NONE of these are the honesty of
millions, MOST of them are essentially viewed through French windows like you
would a manger.
More could be said but the
card factory will dedicate its green blossom gossamer underside to a sweet old
lady from Quebec.
Everyone who has old hands becomes sweet in Canada, it’s like a rule. Go west,
my turncock, and seek out branches that’ll steal your soap bars before your
fairy-dusted eyes. The piano blazes on with balls-out ineptitude that won’t
even start a decent IQ test to prove the levels needed to go to lengths of
adaptable strains. That was the violin just now, the foggy wind-up of tennis
balls craves the slight plucking of strings to sharpen their wind resistance.
It’s a sloppy crank in the rectory, a splat attack with
the bedroom door right open and the psychology manual isn’t even an introduction
to the more abstract level of cognitive therapy. This is the newfound home of
lazy whiskey filled with heavy water and skirted sensationalism. See how
industries quicken with brown, that won’t really apply here.
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