Half the way there.
I was telling of spokes.
Speaking their sun. No wonder it's done (for). Ages eloquent and wince the make of beach rind up and over. The make is inconclusive, utterly. Actualities are beer brined under a cough of chicken, raised bogs, and the most tender of lily wipes: a whistle-full and wizening lectern deed of seen unscored; and the underlies of a well-bred heel, probable amphibian, and later to fizzle up into a told-of-yore state of bandages and rope, still a lily, possible sumac bundle, twice the size of the list and later, judgement parchment papyrus. Much further in the day, an awaited wail of woman would make its beacon here... sound unplentified and sans accompaniment of piano's teeth and the lightest undertow. A day further, and I'd be bored shitless, expecting the font to do some acrobatics instead of trying to bait the lesser minded handfuls of spindly scoops, sand for future cement, and kisses (of course), wasted on your hand while you slept. It wouldn't be parenthetical to underline the detail work. All my days had seen appendices, bless their little souls and for-sale signs. Housing them meant nothing altruistic.
(thighs fused for truth compote)
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