A day for chimera.
Don't porn the battery too terrible, 'lest ye muck the slow jaws down, raiding fought-over 8's with pie-lye delivering, and cottony sedges with a leap-ear sing. Dialects kept this game down. Soars racked, shoulder slung altercations brought nord-tongued sensei forward, propped and hopped-up on jimmy's and spleens. This was no ritual barbital or verb. A type of candied lorn couldn't addle more quickly the lines mined and minded since a singed early proper 20's recollection of dates and tubs and nubs and hot bisque numbers, rendered gentle over the few flown five cave-dived fretted "F" ghetto heft, torn parable mica, and the jute of a fur-limbed throat, the eww in you, had a timber of prose, aptly dactyl and hindered fingering the hue bereft of can.
No comments:
Post a Comment