Brittle little sideways and every man down. If taken gently, the hug will come to feel like a vice or a series of aerials broadcasting nothing with aplomb, but good strappings and that elusive copper tweed that, well, say no lore but chastity. Taking this in stride, the effect would appraise with flu-like symptoms and tallow walks, woven in the last fit of repair like a gerund meant to soak into the jeans and wah's notice left boorishly nailed on an oak team, pending. You could cook this into several moments or garnish fathom readings from a sounding whereby the gravital boards could render the indicator by skews of dictation devices, all coiled in a solid veal, or rubber entry wound to enshroud a totality and general appeal for after-concerted efforts, all-you-beg-belie-belay-beneath-fore/shower maybe-gotcho-finger (nibble, bow, nibble, now again: take the bow) fess up with smallish two-prop airplanes (shush quietly until surrounded!) and damn! A cordial return. A back end through? Well, again, famous ables and the tab of thrice heeded watery baggage (cloying, hasty), these tall-topped gentleman entities prospered in dazes of peaks you could really only catch up in with that wence-look; a kind of clothed battening or trial means to insert pillish trends minus the fattened halves. Praying for mud, too? Kind of like a collapse, you could say. Bite bridle and take 'er pause (apples, intercoms, coda): you-got-now-gotchew-got-now-had-to-you-and-you-and-you-and-all/resounding, veiling of seals tiled into microfabric trowel/take it and smear like a ceiling pull, requested by furious ranked auspices and residential hey-we-hang-here (handsome, by the rooftops). Your got's or mine: shouldn't be that E-Z...
(eyes used for tooth support)
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