Hold
your own hands as you would a pair of roller skates. Dangle them over the
railings and don’t run for your coaster before the time is honking due. Now
hold on, be sure to cling with both sets of fingers, cover them with chocolate
cake if you have to. The swirl leads the typified fructose into the jungle with
the hopes that a man without a brolly will revert back to a makeshift mortuary
status so that the rest of us can laugh awhile at the way his simple foxhounds
won’t say a word of this to the press. And well they shouldn’t. The icy blasts
of vocal minority and the chills of a residual cheque to pay you off of the
busybody’s back.
I’M
NOT THE ONE WITH THE BRA AND THE KNICKERS, she launches into a tirade, CALL THE
WAY THAT YOU’VE GOT IT MADE AGAIN AND YOU’LL NOT ONLY LOSE YOUR CAUSE BUT YOUR
EFFECT AS WELL. AND YOUR AFFECTATIONS FROM THIS LIFE. She means the world to
you still, of course.
It’s
precisely because the drug dealer has the veins of the upper hand that he can
abstain from abseiling tournaments, she’s a big boy and without reasonable
deniability for crying out the fortune flags waver for. The pictures hide nasty
stains all across the shop, the shop of her dreamscape, the one that really
doesn’t mean much to her parents who have spent half their paid lives trying to
wait out the long hours in case the child pops forth and does something usually
acquired through opiates. A substantial amount of because and but.
You know that tears come away from mannequin
lips because warnings aren’t quite clear enough for European warmth and quadrants
of ring bearers who say that gone is gone and profess that the baby has trains
to play with in the morning and don’t you worry about all the platforms and
electrified lines. Day and night stands with the triumphant pounding of army
drums as nobody would ever take hold without freeing up another extra hand precisely
to quiver and hear the jangle of important national holidays through the
musical aforementioned by a crowd of gentlemen you weren’t a party to. FIRE IN
THE SECOND ROW!!!
Even
without notice, the effervescent inconsequence gets a footnote and a header
depending on the documents you pick up and their rational value according to
Grey Scale. Mr Thank and Celia would cordially like to invite you to their
misgivings regarding modern day politics precisely because they know how little
you care about anything except cat-scratching and fish-feeding. You’ve noticed
that the bulk comes from more than human air because the through line ends the
bookkeeper’s life through suicide hotlines and phone cords that wed together
through electromagnetism from God on high.
Undistinguished
you-know-who would like to kick his legs up high and bend over his crook just
to show his gambler’s fallacy and penchant for walking right by the
never-you-mind some common folk miss.
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