I know that tomorrow I will meet someone. I think he keeps a crow tooth in his armpit. He has my Vertical Horizon compact disc. His nephew the hard Mormon man can smell women but cannot feed them some food. I made that up. But I want my compact disc tomorrow. I will get it from the guy who has the thing in his armpit. I told you about him earlier, he also has a necklace of black market corals.
Wait for the leaves. They explain a lot. They come from trees and taste like the voice of the sun. They can make memories that do not burn. They make thoughts like bad ice. They make imagined faces like birdhouses.
Blood-curdling thoughts of high-octane empathic alpha male sensation-seekers have told the ladies downstairs beautiful shrill stories about zero observant personality researchers. Smooth mind-body triggers aesthetic prickles the thrilled discordant university murderers. North Carolina is intense. Anything jarring or out of place ruffles humble thinkers' emotions.
Uncooked beet spray makes it simple to relax in a bath. Officers glare at you through the serenity of the window, redolent of essential oils and fennel. The geraniums are in their rubber soles. Tall and well-built, they look great in their jeans. They bite back grins.
Place your guests into individual bowls. Sprinkle with excited holiday vitamins. Our gift to each other is a powerful extract. It's the season for rejuvenating viruses and salt slices. We hide some sauce in our softened scrotums, which we enjoy!
Ask for a kiss! Walk faster! Use cinnamon to stay calm! When you're ready for bed... Repeat yourself! When you're doing housework... Zap your leisurely breasts with happy supplements of dancing! Smile! Smile until you need stitches!
Help the flat pony get its crack cocaine. Then we can watch the majestic TV movie about fragrant mothers.
