hazy nonsense...vague babbling...skip it.
We can turn this feature off by extending the forearm…extending the index finger…indexing the finger thumber…arming the boring singer…humming to the interloper…salutations to the sturdy joker…grimy platforms in a supreme stupor…chemical compensations for the compensations for the few fingers left to extend and then press the button in the elevator. Halt…try to remember how you got here…I think I’m sure I’ll see you later.
The only sentence that comes to mind, flops around for a second, trying a feeble lift-off …for the sake of honourable schoolboys and fellow broken thrift-shop windows with blue stained glass and the scent of fresh pine…standing in line with the bushes and the bay leaves and the center stage is occupied by the faithless and the desperate and then regretting it…struggling on…it lingers…whispers…the city must smell good nowadays. Must smell good…must smell pretty sinister if you’re not…indulgent…hey mister…you just missed her...
There is still a lot of porn to live for ahahaha.
I saw a bird with war-paint. Ill bred saints sail past last generally and then go down with the ship like a nice dip that offers no time to quip about things like port or starboard. Cooking sherry or the last note? and then this peaceful looking periwinkle blue bears down from all sides…dulling the senses…cool calm sleep washes over your swaying body…the present reality takes a few more seconds to catch up with your breath and you know that the city must smell pretty good if they’ve got this in the soil. Some heart begins to boil at the thought of my thought I borrowed never bought and brought it home with me from some other lands where all my glands used to be more or less normal…I’d like to inform all the people sitting by the hole in the roof of the heart of the dreamer that there’s going to be lemon tarts and sickly sweet pastries on the counter...and drinks for refreshment…I detect a bit of nobility in this blood. Light a match. It’ll burn bright if you’re right. I come to the conclusion that it’s the same scarlet gold dud waste of time that had poured out before on fields much similar to these and turrets of disheveled looking castles where too little time and far too many hassles had caused you to miss the train, the bus, the greater good, the bigger picture, the little people who got stuck in the middle…and more or less the point. Trying to guess the riddle that has no answer…except only for those who are sold and then their masters…
the faster you run…the more likely you are to hear things snap…beneath your shoes…above your head in trees where birds take flight once you’re in sight and break twigs and send them down as warning missiles before they decide it’s a game of chance with all or nothing to lose. Excuse me good sir…but the smell around here is very nice…what city is this??
Mary mary quite contrary…in what garden did you grow?
Peshawer.
cauliflower willpower. spring onions and winter showers...great walls and leaning towers...mortal frontmen for divine powers...larvae.
martin pale, 20, male.
The only sentence that comes to mind, flops around for a second, trying a feeble lift-off …for the sake of honourable schoolboys and fellow broken thrift-shop windows with blue stained glass and the scent of fresh pine…standing in line with the bushes and the bay leaves and the center stage is occupied by the faithless and the desperate and then regretting it…struggling on…it lingers…whispers…the city must smell good nowadays. Must smell good…must smell pretty sinister if you’re not…indulgent…hey mister…you just missed her...
There is still a lot of porn to live for ahahaha.
I saw a bird with war-paint. Ill bred saints sail past last generally and then go down with the ship like a nice dip that offers no time to quip about things like port or starboard. Cooking sherry or the last note? and then this peaceful looking periwinkle blue bears down from all sides…dulling the senses…cool calm sleep washes over your swaying body…the present reality takes a few more seconds to catch up with your breath and you know that the city must smell pretty good if they’ve got this in the soil. Some heart begins to boil at the thought of my thought I borrowed never bought and brought it home with me from some other lands where all my glands used to be more or less normal…I’d like to inform all the people sitting by the hole in the roof of the heart of the dreamer that there’s going to be lemon tarts and sickly sweet pastries on the counter...and drinks for refreshment…I detect a bit of nobility in this blood. Light a match. It’ll burn bright if you’re right. I come to the conclusion that it’s the same scarlet gold dud waste of time that had poured out before on fields much similar to these and turrets of disheveled looking castles where too little time and far too many hassles had caused you to miss the train, the bus, the greater good, the bigger picture, the little people who got stuck in the middle…and more or less the point. Trying to guess the riddle that has no answer…except only for those who are sold and then their masters…
the faster you run…the more likely you are to hear things snap…beneath your shoes…above your head in trees where birds take flight once you’re in sight and break twigs and send them down as warning missiles before they decide it’s a game of chance with all or nothing to lose. Excuse me good sir…but the smell around here is very nice…what city is this??
Mary mary quite contrary…in what garden did you grow?
Peshawer.
cauliflower willpower. spring onions and winter showers...great walls and leaning towers...mortal frontmen for divine powers...larvae.
martin pale, 20, male.
posted by Duck at 9:47 AM
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