Sunday, February 13, 2011

Beather Bunder

A little dawning in the darkest of shells. You may notice a sudden jaunt in the minuses. No worries, she'll do you shell. The prosper cannons had headway up on the fourth tier before folding cores and skins a'fleshy, loading xo's and eightfold down, but good on the jones, as culpable as crance, and even level in leavening. We'd hired a few horseman: one with pummel, the other in a state of ready hand and burls of finger-wide diminutive. Together, dashing hasty as they were spurious, ten occasions milk directional would have them playing lightly on the sand, without grimace nor sad dejected ordinary, but a clasp of silver in each, and lye, sable, forts, the requisite three digit elipse: these worried into pairs, laden healed with nitrogen, but buttressed with a zeal none another likened. Hers was a musing meld. Cold as feet, and ripe as a nape, the thoughts on you had to be onward up the fence, down a slide, retent in obstinate teatery or heatherizing plentifold cuts and wonder, dairy played over, by a wednesday, as only the teeming and apparent temperment of minaret abetting could ferry that loss and ally with canal richter and his grape dour bowery of dire sours and frustrated bruce; another notable, end is slight. A mirabelle, once as used as a tune, could tom that umpire with a belly so wired so as to be mistook for a cushion of shoots, and a laser full of carry-lances.


(eyes used for tooth support)

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