spock's_blisters the repeater paste! Do what you like unless you like gangbanging sheep. Sacks of blue bagels the moon is not on fire. This time, screening the chickens for rubella is a process highly dependent on the gloves one wears and as a token of advertisement, pictures are allowed at the cost of your dishes. My investors are somewhere in Europe, but don’t you ever worry about them, okay? Door opens, Hannah walks in, falls down and takes a bath close to the carpet. Before long, she is under the carpet, chanting. I wonder about voice in cramped postures and how the opera singers do it, always booming their chests, their necks arc back to get the full range. Professional singers have the posture of knives. Fetal belters never did so well. I must take a shit. The drapery can or may keep you company while I’m at the toilet, but luckily, fiber is a good friend so you won’t have too wait long. See, I’m back already: the villager speaks softest when outside his hut. It’s the paradigm that’s breaking, not your special tree. And in other news, a boysenberry is fucking up the Germans attempt at making solid rock ‘n roll. While you’re at it, unscrew it. There, good charlatan. Come out, come out from under the carpet my love coupon, my crouton necklace. You mesmerize me with your pelvic limps. I can’t see straight because you have a tendency to do backflips in the cafeteria. It’s implied you’ve come back from the alleys and the gardens and the bagelries to grant me three wishes, but you say I can’t have them until tomorrow. In reply your malignant attitude, what I do in my spare time is all up to the doormat, how it pretends not to think about my acts, my steps, how it shies away from responsibility like the knife not caring what it’s going to chop next, the germs not knowing what they’re going to eat up, and the sunbathers hogging the rays, arrrrr matey, that is ridiculous! You’ll know if I’m joking if my pants are down and my ass is in your face. 010624 what's it to you? who go blather from