balsynaptis paste! titanic lamps lead the way for the jelly_bison as he stammers imperceptibly through what doesn't seem to be fog, belching. the toeprints resemble curved submarine glitter. the wildness of platinum bean sprouts dance around a plunger that shoots ninety feet into the air before falling into the sure-fire grasp of a trainful of nougat and inconceivability. back off stepladder, we don't need no stinkin' marmacocity. so the gist myst crapped on the forceps of doctor altogether, who was nonetheless in the heat of the moment and pickled with ferocious little gasps that exuded his southern belle quality, nightmarish tendency to keep on burning the fucking waffles. at least there were armchairs and there were palms and sub-certain plans for the future and a big ice sculpture of julius caesar whipping a wild boar, succinctly in portrayal of master 'collaborating' with denizen. if we all held our breaths for more than the halflife of dogshit the electric sinking could vanish. this all depends on pancreatic verbosity and consumption of licentious victorian brothel bolts handed down through centuries of hands, arms, armadas, goats, sifters, glossary, the green staring man, whimsy level 6 dynamite-heroics, and a large bottle of cat. suffice to say that everything is looking smaller from this vista. 020729 what's it to you? who go blather from