Do you think they will riot. Some great passionata. A capitulation upon calamitous exertions. Would that the succor of the seek be to mind tendering anything greener than an occasional hitching thumb.
You know that old mother nature don’t real mind comparisons. Not really. No in fact she likes them all covered over in their thatches. Hiddering up their camp like the weird flotsam and jetsam tumbling out from under the hot lid of a pot.
Yes, then there are grades, and hues, and scaled out wages of jubilant thrift. Ergonomic precouncil. The skittering Draco slumming it down pavements with breaches of his mission flying for the pole.
A spindler slicker on a rat back. Conditioned by epistles of extemporaneous gestalt. Tenuous distractions in an early test of the litmus. Fixing on the high mast a bear of the Kodiak weight. Newsome and branching out fleeting dam near a full tidal wash.
The animated dreams of antiquated charisma. It is no mere abased and contemporary state of inherent miasma. The borne again citizenry don’t need to swear up and down the streets about nothing like righteousness.
Soon as your tee is to bat it is to begin the series of steps that will lead you to a full capitulation. Of your every last fear. The change will be tremendous. Mac! You will be among those standing in viable mean upon the very breaking of the circle of control. All them folk you know with a vested influence in the fate of some little bunny fu fu.
Cycle of life. Yippee, aye, aye. A gladden themed dei of the avuncular realm conditioned. Here by his gestalt the lad approaches a workbench and says a prayer for the light. A matter of werks and those things by craftsmen drawn.
I would say the commons are not the shanty full of dillies. Each waxing on the folly of chili pots brewing too long. Soused and taking to last call for the hounds and ruffians still outside in the door yard withe less zealous observers of the contested friet.
Personal Writings 