Empty are.
The hole in the sky left the conversation, and no kidding as to-who'd-follow next: suits and tithes ensconced with pills and bitters to swallow, soothe, and salve. The hex of byte and wiles of sextant knew grooming as a best herb in which the tires and steel-strung rusts had the carbon day in which to fold. Likening this steed was a clamor to behold, mind you. Poles and passions thrust the late morning in a blue way, a hired thong, a plex of redeeming; this tube of one-off piled the mattress tacks into leading lads and fork-fingered gingerlies, pleasing none but the steeped mother's rest. The pope solo had a binge on breathing, and noble couldn't-you was along a winning strafe, a tactile next-year's machine runnner, piloting bulles and hubbles and macro-topics on the milled slyly of eyes stunned, commercial babies, labor intensities, lawn singers, pounded rightly by the kisses of foxes and boxtops, sighing as tea appeased. Moot was grandfathered into the breaks of fault and asset, trembling the cardboard shanty into a convex of oggles, albums, lists, and gardens. Then, by hover's bitch, the lesson predicted the diminishing of horde and chord and scorn and groan and drone and the third percentile of voters' causes and skinny tableau, tapered to the velvet thrush of long-looks and the middle mindset. An ode to got-it had this yodel darling reared on the sprinkle shine with tracts shorn of lowly tucks, sewn two-ply, and hard to believe the leagues lept hindways. Goaded by this rune, calcified and nutritious, dots on the paper were better wee abridgements to change the litter.
Filled ton of won it wasn't.
(eyes used for tooth support)
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