Aye, my roils.
The tour portends and proceeds, now vacating past the snowy shelves and into a persistent itch of persia and rain. Presentable selves do little to encompass the unusual insufficiency of visual stimulant descriptos and depictum larders: it's been tried, and now she's tired. My gut hates this occasion; we'll remedy, we'll redeem (coupons undisclosed)...
Two hundred smiles south and a seemingly smug fortnight later, them there verde careens, ostrich legged and billowy, tuned tapped & rapt, still embalmed. On tables, things -- tangible and remembered -- are laid. Eggs, letter blocks, holes from paperpunches, candle wax. Thirty six in all, the fables weep in the american closet: watered down heavily either with purchases or a demure leonine temperance. Four more beers and we'll see 'er through; conversation dogged, but juiced for the next advent. Sure and sure, these chores lay down quietlike, unobservant an' steadfast thinking blinks of schedules and pennies, or badly acted film surveys in long gone phonetics and phonic magazines unloaded weekly.
Badges sealed, smooth and baldly, a torpor for your tithes, friend. All this chaste hammering and lonely breeds. The two? A palpable plain. Oily oaks and corrals of foreclosed lent as-to-whethers and shored indents, ventures sewn. Damnable predictions: more rain tag this boat will show.
And ah's, me roil. On's ended apt.
(eyes used for tooth support)
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