And there we go, just like that, magic boy wonder, making miracles with the flick of his wrist, his  power shimmering over his beer lip, below his bald scalp. Ties wrapped around their necks like crookshanks to the stars. Something hotland charcuterie said got me thinking it was a beach of poverty watching you from the strands of chanel 42. The red light flicking against his face like a recorder taking snapshots over and over again, even though the light was green, with Major robinson, and the attractive man, looking at garza number Tuxen for over three minutes straight, without a word of release from either side, as though there were some sort of major malfunction with your chromecast, causing it to run exceptionally, if not astoundingly laggy.

Satan’s kingdom crumbling beneath the hot light of God’s resurrection. Don’t get me wrong, with the way you were saluting his white bread over easy, those girls started looking at you Mr Nice Leg’s McWhiskers, dancing over there in the warm bowl of the sink. Good old people giving you the way your lighting should have looked for christsakes, not being able to wear the same tie two days in a row because it’s bad luck; which is what I wish I had known before donning the same tie I wore yesterday when picking up the pot. No wonder Sven gave me such a weird look. Just keep your head up mr mosquito biter. The reason for mistakes is to prepare us for the future rewards of God, as I said.

Gotta get your demonology back up to Paris state. You’re feeling the right way of lighting through life without your priorities straight. Keeping it on track with the burning sensation of a throw-back-Thursday. Don’t give me that no-back-Tuesday. For the spilling of go-back-fro-days. I’ve got another coming’ back for yeas. Be the time of night for you’re on the lowdown. I haven’t got a reason for seeing my number. Don’t get the backside of a lean side growbound. Children wearing their clothes backwards, going full dandy, with their mouths in their handies. Potentially there’s no monday you haven’t seen that wasn’t spiced with morbidity. Surely there hasn’t been a day you weren’t scared to look too deeply into, for the love of Christ, the mother loving son of a bitch, who got your worrisome naughts tied up in tangles. The way the holy lord holds my motor made me think there might actually be thoughts up in his skull worth seein, and that there is nothing in the world more sincerely seen through than the art of fiction. There were two cover stories wherein the man made waves amongst the native American worry worts. The walls painted in wood plaster. The pictures of old authors, pushing the means for destruction the other way, looking like you’ve got two double barrels and a microphone; I said, two storm chasers and some microfilm. I don’t mean you’ve got to go back to the way it was, but at least don’t hold your questions for the way it might be.



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