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paste!
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Taximus Sherm, the traumatic splinterer, gets a grip on their task that takes too long.
This is a task that is identified by the gracelessness of hind legs lagging behind or torn up,
sometimes by the wind, beset juicily, like thrown darts of liquefied bone up and over this.
Hey Taximus, have the statues of mongers trampled their dissolved statuses on the wrath?
And when he replies it’ll have the ferocity of a million tigers, but all in post-satiation;
they ate the Running, they hated it all, but did so anyway and now are resting, mute.
Taximus Sherm, the underdesigned blot, navigates into an area meant to be crossed out.
On the map of himself, he makes marks that have no variation, just vicious scraggly arcs,
but each had their own impulse in creation central to the moment that he minor flowered.
This jot has a quality of mastered glare, this of visual step from the cracks in the wall,
a jangle and a jingle lasting five maybe six buttery turns or ravenly spotty and fermented.
As a designee he is still chock full of courses making the stays temporarily real and icy.
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