A round of applesauce. Really fandom-related, they. Did never become look out when I wasn't? Spelling is of course a hard-line position, whatever. You say I'm a bastard full of lecherous impulses, but what am I to bring to the potluck if not charming Q&A airs? Let me be the first to admit that what you're accusing me of is blatant geography. Am the second time around, I? Like no, but better because yes. Did something neutral or an expression of doubt pulled taut like whoa. Couldn't keep a secret, could you get that for me, could you place another brain upon the rung? Talking is like forming likes and dislikes without pausing to consult the experts, whoever they are or seem to be. Uh, yeah. And then some. Yeah, what do you want, cheese? That can be arranged actually; I know a guy.
Just because it's the high school gym doesn't mean it's also a helping of loaf. Rest comes as leftover pie over lies. Over and yes could have been true, lately sedimentary, loping along, your brat. Too late, but that's not neat, has a lot to agree on before taking care or holding down a j-o-b for more than a week. Leaflets arrive, announcements on them, also God is a tractor. All tractors belong to freebie sterling, hordes of them arguing all night about legs and locks. I always keep the box. That way I can premeditate to my heart's content, form, and meter. It's like I never even have to get up in the morning, it's all there, laid out for me in the dew-dappled drainpipe. Bubbles surmise me, trucks go by. And that, mirror breaks me, the tub fronts. Visually, years portend. Tricky maneuvering allows dust under the belts blowing up dirt bombs, scattershot vocation.