tornado_bluffs circumvent Out the traindoor, grandma. Skin the pellets with rye and rudabegas as you suck on salt. Aspen peaks swerve and wax tornado_bluffs with a chilly cream filling. Spout! The taste of red hair haunts pale-skinned muscles that think. The bald guy won't win. Sharp elastic digs into the sugar and down your face. Oh, it'll add to it, sorry. I don't understand the issue here, because Heinz 57 reigns supreme. The Royal Jelly. Drones love to whisper along with the breeze and gnaw your calf. Jumping jacks. Tuscon. I forget math, said the parapelegic to the outdoorsy salesman. Dream on, little puppet! Her flat teeth dripping venom as she does a pirouette across a straw bed on a slope. Spoil! Her curds sinking as her worn skin cracks and the smile shatters like one thousand tiny mirrors spiraling down towards the icy tile. Stunt! The clockwork ticking, her cogs clicking into place as the brain signals its old patterns to her voice box. He watches and throws a chair and cannot look away as the narrarator wilts like heavy paper stained with Saran wrap water that comes from the eyes. 060213 what's it to you? who go blather from