as it is sliced, and they'll let you know, th, th, that their airy mountain hairs are quite near as a cliff faces go, yet redeem as a might-impossible to autograph, let alone make an accurate digital second dimensional facsimile. These rails have hairs too, at least eight in a row, sandwiched like hungry ciabatta loaves, bucking and gnashing their incisors like a barechestably in-heat rodent or chuck, splendid in his golden hour and cock, resplendent in hoary breathes as well as vibrator miles, but to stunt that prospect in a photo-journ or play ass-grab with the preacher's pet, I mean, all were hexmarks and standish plots; never a rusty rail or gale named apiary or frond, it'd be preferable to game it past and patented by local bruces and timid feels. A peel? Or a lumber jock? Glaze, gaze and gonner; matchsticks, lice and spire. Scream hi and the mountains cajole wise oaks and wish-you-wee-wellness apts and domicile pleasures. By happenstance, it'd be a kind farewell, take leaf off me, place a bent spoon near the town water supply, and beseech lords or hail merry hatter patches that lemonade yellow servility was like a dash of rubbin alc to a quietus eve; interropts, late-loom binders, sugar haggis and frisk riles, these found hair as hell.
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