Sythe my tetse

Fisty cuffs and onion ian. A misery tea itinerary; leftover which ends the dated mace of cloying yogis, bastions of wild tight and cleat sheens forthed over rinded and played for-over the mess and sedge, says to the ewe, loft and addendum belch blowing glowed glues and feather whether hits, bacon on an orange blossom and again, feeling ties and my tits sigh. Sham nips at the cage gauged rent staid with ires on focus, measures with a tin toil and barley cup slash of oak belief. Criars rich in topiaries, the shoshoon went elseway, staying on the long line enough for the rope to fall lover middle end, mired in centrist pabulum and jutes on a target nearby, parking lot skewed to fourteen papers, batched end to end, ladled maybe in garish relay, resistors, mansions, elk, and thyme. Later, pods with large senses of being would come back to fix the since-manners, and this was no reality better for the baring, nor an easy upset for formidable allies on the next team hex point and previous vexation or secession chimes on ten to fifteen, dropping one to make a dream come clue, and we all loved Barry. He made britches seem like points on a map, cherries and ladies' slips, mushroomed with oxides and tomes revelling in that itchy feel of fibreglass on a lesser hang, two fingers plied for a scissor piss and pity you weren't there when the stuffings were really beat. But drums and carpal tongue pressed near and far, the herbaceous flyover hadn't deemed a medley like that in years, or perhaps, seconds by the stroke of six, eleven, and algebraic finites stilling waters where the efts and papercuts played out life's ramas and parade day sun-jun smiles.