The good at dancing have it easy: this cat takes place in the future. Candy corn can't hack it in absentia. Rustics believe it or else they provide the dimmer attachment. A little interloper once indicted as much, his outer math turning drunk at the sight—go and see what Santa brought the astronauts.
Some devilish pretense unseen soon sunk in; ever the frail moon-mart, a hooded holiday broke down. The road flew up at us, convincing no one of its course. Specials on plaid kept the kids at bay. Serene it was, the bland prospectus in its binder. Reality bores much to be desired, attracting comers from coast to Costco. So slip into something more soporific, less beatific and further let us prey.
The house is "on fire," the relatives crammed. Yellow and blue, orange and brackish, birds you've never heard of filled the restaurant. Outside, smoke improved visibility. Terror came in pocket-size, fully fucked. Snap off a drastic happening and watch it meander as a liquid battery factory belies the butter nature of our banter. Scroll and weep over the deep clean of yearlong jockey assassin cramps.
In a while we wet blankets began to beg easier. Questions arose around the posy, the mere mention of which sent bachelor hackers into hysterics. "Quell the buttery paternosters!" screamed they. A tunnel thus entombed us.