THE INDIE
SCENE expects one to not only fight as well as flight but to fright a bit as
well. Dog hunters have more meek mannerisms about themselves and those guys are
definitely not 100%. Don’t wake the little children up from the tomb or else
their mothers will activate fan motions and motion fans and then every Tom,
Ezra and Maxwell will want a lift from their leftover lobotomy deadlines. We
grant three week grace periods provided that you can ascertain just why you are
graceful and how TB has hit your devastating family in an unyielding yin-yang
of eternal proof. We’ve got our own deadlines to make, after all.
SOME PEOPLE
TOLD ME ABOUT THIS LIVING that you can make from stringing together bits of
ragged wool and reaching it over a tall brick wall just in case any ghosts or
ghouls decide to be bookish and respectful of boundaries. No-one knows exactly
what to do with a hysterical woman in her underwear here, right now we’re
double-booked and the aspirins aren’t very nice to the taste. Just let it rest
a while on your palate and see yourself for yourself, for your health. That’s
etiquette, you’ll see, that’s the right sound for sorting ring-binders to. Some
people working here feel most depressed when having sex with fat ladies when it
turns out that that’s all they want to do otherwise. We don’t exactly see the
other half of the Time Bang from here because we’ve somehow forgotten to
register the experience as is wont to happen when the motion fan is electrified
by lecture notes and field theories that go on unanticipated by college
professors until their dying wish. Relax and smell the fizz at the end of a
dirty remote control: that’s life expectorating. The fungus is superfast and
irrespective of blonde, brunette and even blue Barnett. Cue the loud guitars.
BOOKMARKS
WHEREVER YOU STEP, crafting the circuit into something decidedly more
statistically possible, by a long and gargantuan margin of error. Plausibility
keeps returning like congress echoes and fruity burps which go on to gain
sentience and do spectacular things with French women's moustaches and
cappucinos. You can see why I like thee to snap like a rubber band, you're all
soul and just because a smattering of the feminine concert members want to win
battles with tiger cubs and trendsetter button pushing. These are just a few of
the lordly air products, curled and spruced up with iron-like fire and war drum
gel that leaves all the men fussed and tapping their chins with gauntlet
finger. Storms rush in with ionic hardhats for supersonic fatheads. They just
want to chop and chop and rescind their fledgling colour schemes that grease
actor's heels just so they can turn their darkness into a line of cars that
drink quick glances between forbidden lovers. This happens every day with
pessimistic teenagers and how they joust with faced facts and the deeper blue
of the devil's tart grin.
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