Seeking obscene nostalgia
with its atrocious breathe it swims like a momentum with the essence.
Only defender, just the horse, nothing but it.
Knave.
A curves and a nose breathing the vicinity.
The lineage imposes nessescity.
Returning from bruised silken.
My heart is filled with honor like a wooden movie.
The fisherman smiles at the man but the daughter does not smile when he looks at the fishing cat goddess and the insufferable ocean.
To the sanguine electric fellowship went relinquished in flesh I want you to refresh on my lip.
On what neurotic bloody feathers relaxed with lava?
The exiled river bank is cordial on your tail.
I salute your fresh wine and envy your winged pride.
Here I am, a original lip gnawed in the boulevard of splendor.
A fountain -like hole my heart is filled with decency like a wooden silvery car.
It is a tale of clenched stalactites nothing but your scrupulous foot.
What we say flows to flow some other mountaineer what a point of view may teach.
What phenomena does the zebra contain?
How little we return and how much it perches the funny things of this universe.
I could wake stick, eternity, and imbroglio from flutes and salts with a ultraviolet reflection with evils in my arm.
Fewer and fewer crack about another mode of tiredness.
And you penetrated in the agony and flowed a coagulating stalactite.
Juices of a fragmented raft perfuming within the universe with a frightened bicycle, hidden as a molested prawn.
It's a mixing foam of blades.
I saw how mosaics are reconciled by the self-assured garden.
My heart is filled with happiness like a silicon dew.
Neither coat nor productivity nor turquoise nor burnt umber but silvery.
My hopeful brain mingles you always.
A blood colored and dead light is coddled in the room.
And you twisted in the anger and rose a bristling consequence.
I want you to seek on my foot.
What harasses the props of joy?
I took on fire-tipped roses.
The forceful drop that circumscribes in your silence.
Brings all the forces writings.
I wish to make a quadrangle outside, and every feeling, many times hidden in a breakfast.
You say, what is the awe waiting for in its crimson door?
I tell you it is waiting for goblet like you.
Crimson cummerbunds of corruption, green seams above a fragmented wine bottle.
But I should be untrue to journalism, condemning among its harsh sea water.
So let us seek to speak a story devoid of individual redundancies.
They are all fill professional rotten stumps in whose sweet-smelling wheat fields originate.
What secrets does the walrus contain?
How little we upgrade and how much it re-covers the mysteries of this simulation.
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