So there I was, thinking of her, whoever, tried to stick to my martini. Collapsing under temperature was my ice, my godforsaken rock, ah, I had the hunchies. Intricate, level headed guitarbravado kept on disturbing my rhythm. Completement fou, barbares, competent seulement en s’ faire un entrenchement, caramba. Basta. Enough for now. I stwep out of my wooden hut into the wildernis of blackberry bushes along the stupid little kitty path my daughter had been allowed to make for her birthday. We cant walk over this. Kittypaths. What the luck, bring me some… Okay. So there we were, and the rhythm had been intruded with by a solemn element. Let’s call her Harry.
Of course, Harry is not a womens name. But this is beside the point. Lets continue with the story, wherein Harry kept saying to the wind: Backoff. And the wind would backoff and retreat. But there she would stand, and scream: Backoff! And the wind would back off and lie down, and be silent and rage here and there a petty whuzz of steam in a little whirlwind from American Beauty, without the bag. I didnt get what was so delirious about that bag. Did anyone?
Teletran One. Who hat the cooleth (imagine here the figure of Beavis) name on the planet? Surely it is, it must and it shall be, Teletran One. Who else can match this definitive spirit, of a godgiven imprint? No, I tell you, and you all, this is nigh impossible. Nigh? Yes, the absolute, the rock in that icy blurr, where the rest of it died. Oh dear, the kitchenknife draws closer. Toujours je m’aime whispers the poodle in the rosarybasket, and the rotten smell is derived off the taxes due in such a way that the creature barks, and entrenches itself in an argument to beset with diamonds to believe.
O clearly we see it is all about the eye, the diamond, in the rough. Alladins lamp, the virtue of fortune, the virtue of luck. The Greatest of all Virtues!I wish all the words were golden! Stricken by accident, mere pure chance and delivery mistakes, travelling always a fine line between, families and clans, inbreds and intederests… Greatness is like a grey stone, (or why not, a black one instead) where seawater washes up filth and derivatives.
Readily made counterfeits and prearranged truths are a false basis to trust a lie. Can we not just, get along? She asked the waiter instead of her penetatingly gazing readily made boyhunk and studhammer who was looking like shit actually, since he came back from the bathroom. What the holy freaking fookah yoo had passed, in the stalls? De Ja Vu. Examine. Operate. Examine. Open. Operate. Operate. Operate, god damn it o - o, thank you.