bus_station_modes paste! Do not paste the shriveled tail onto the clipboard without smirking, my dove, my princess. Thou kickst the tailor by the tweed. Suddenly, the peppercorns fall from the gate drain above the roof, by the sequence of leaves trapped in some sort of muck underpinnings. The word of the day is: Garbanzo-Ass. Look at the weeds. Look at the couches. This is a day for reuniting with the mobile of hot summer naps, egoless and fruitful. Paradise is in a new section of the classifieds. The holy cow has taken the scenic route even though the motherfucker is out of film. Get a job! Wounding the wink of a bus station; the triangle of concrete betwixt laughing twerps and hieroglyphs of sudden asphyxiation via locker combinations. Could it be more desolate in here, in this trumpet valve. Look out, the pill punching fingers dropped claustrophobia down onto the elsewheres beyond this mighty stage. The whole room has the diagram drawn correctly. At least that’s what we figured once the sun came up and nobody could move, seated, blown away. It’s amusing how you can get knocked on your ass, but not at all suddenly. 010625 what's it to you? who go blather from