The
research assistants stopped coming back. We’re all waiting for the filming to
stop and get up off the floor while hour lasts which will probably shit out
Inuit legs minus the knees. All the guys return to the gates while all the
girls snap their runner beans in half because they’ve actually been going to Lisbon . This is just a
matter of time, a horror movie that is super-jazzed and unerringly discussed by
emergency announcements that stand up to security bags. Weird packages will
react to the despondency of obrigado. Is that a thing? Correction of the
masculine to feminine. The boarding of a plane to some exploitative tabloid
paper, somewhere between the staples and the fold.
It
took a while to become properly frustrated but we’re all finally here with
limbs intact within the upper 70s. When you get to the weak internet connection
you jam it up the weighing scales and profess your love to the Countess of
Buffer Zones. She will piece together what is left of your foreskin and prepare
the childish shed cells for a rocket ride along with the prearranged disservice.
Making wine in a pickup truck due to obligation is exactly the way to pay lip
service to the crappy home video. Homme. This is where it’s at, a grovelling
apology to the cranky vacation. Not a matter for the stop-start Gods, they just
have a gate and a timer that keeps shorting out and emigrating to the endless
carry-on. This is pretty much a moronic story as crazy as it will ever rise
above the bar with spongy fingers. A true embarrassment on the bed sheet.
Strike
out against the sewing expedition, a flagrant reduction of turbulence in the
bursar’s bedroom. I’m going to call this case closed, the Finnish destination.
She says to me ten minutes passed one and wouldn’t take it lying down on the
green bridge to set the updated fire of backlights and while you went to a
little small-out competition. An umbrella snags on wasps with ice cream
precision. We’re getting lunch for the eggy brickmen and their appalling
rancour. Reasons why could just go on for ages.
Let’s jettison a few:
plastic bags wiring ships incorrectly, blue screens being synonymous with
death, Electropop concerts that rain with decrypted information, underpants
covered in cream cracker juice, so many things without the word things in them,
the lines on a pale bit of wood, Nazareth, the state of taxi services created
within a feverish product placement advert, a queasy stomach that goes on
denied, a Grade-A grape, a Hollywood sign that isn’t the Hollywood sign. More
than enough. Less than a little lucrative.
Could
we perhaps train our researchers a little harder, put them through their paces
a little? Undress them with righteous boredom? Activate the watches and their
pet wretches into cold night’s eviction? I’m trying, you’re altering too much
for me to handle. I’ve got to hold on to something. The cells and the rancour
out here.
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