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paste!
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would you trap the balsa pedal?
accolades press out a fish form
in the middle of nightlandings
it snaps a greater industrious twig
a hawk navigates into some finality
there are smoldering pieces
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loansharks flatten out the runner
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landmines never shut up
you have to lose the accent
it was a good harvest
and it seems to last for a good full second here in the timeless
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between the big diesel rigs, a full fledged fledgling companion to the expanses decides to get a hot meal and some speed for the big paycheck journey north.
somewhere a turtle daydreams of being a larger animal, like a battleship.
"there is no time for fundamentals," yelled the soon-to-be fired coach.
key to the laundromat found in baud rate.
learning more about listing as a device. coalminersdualism.
what a bunch of lambshit.
one pigeon cried until cinco de mayo.
santa pail is not a california mission.
in the game of clue, you smell like flowers.
napalm makes a sandwich for landlords in seratonin deprived situations, like hardcore shaving of the antique mobiles that had little to do with that seldom seen ownerless dispatch.
black olives regrow hair follicles in aging cats.
"there have been no new slavic button factories since 1953," she cried out over the loudspeaker. when the audience realized the implications, they taught themselves the third method for the thing that couldn't be done with the second method.
in early rome, they lifted stone blocks with steam.
i had to like open the blues up and let some of the blues blood come out to show them--s.r.
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