So they let me have it staringly straight: shorten one end to make the candle wick slightly abate in order to, and then make a squeezing sound, much likening itself to the chortle and/or yelp for dog-styled candied appeal or/not, minding its own business (alas, the son-finger quotient still unrestrained) on top of the gleam, leaning forward in high lopes for fries and liveries, teaching and braving icy waters, whereas the underscored and appointments would continue to exhale and be left ungraded, browned slimmed to a listless ounce with a gentle sauce crisping the delight jowl, a howl in the rain, it looked heavier than normal this morning, and then, amongst touches of zen-abled curvature, the aces and heirs to the boob, faces of extinction, as this is what happenstances will have you happen upon whilst scrolling, bid their wits they-sure-assuredly-did, those shits, what with their shirts, jackets, tasty meats, brittle digits, clamps, panted hoses, starling gawks, morticianary hyacinths, ritual sheaths, wrists, wursts, synths, pinging noises, rustles in the roof, and urgent needs (numbers 1 and 2), all would come unglued when the next daily rash and distraction would create a distance between hue and pee, and my short end of the stick became a slit to hunker over, leaving one masturbating in a corner when the last minute struck twelve.
<ø))~~~§<
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