Give and take is the shuffle of the casual spark in the step, that there ever was a season to take upon us some great escape into the meadows of our fears and our insecurities. There can be some revelry that there is not but a motion of the wheel to the greater argument that a spaceship does not land into my underpants to give me good credence unto the cornfields that I am entertained. Thus, there can be no other thing than a simmering smear-shaft, some bible-plugged-in?
How to describe the end of the reign of the zeal of the smashing posts upon smashing posts is that there is no religion that can give man the reason to rise against the insolvency. There must be some realm of the percevibel-meat, the pudge-forth nose-form of the human that cares to not take heed to the cautionary tales of the greater rubbings. Graves. Upon us.
The Stalwart newspaper bible hour must give for us some reckoning then, that there is the rise to the hour the saints. There must be some consort else, Pizza Hut, the GDP and the Dalai Lama cannot climax to the toilet about the greater of the regrets to not eat the most spicy Pizza Hut pizza possible. Make it spicy, Dalai Lama. Make is spicy. Make me resolve some greater escapade into your computer systems, examining the old shit that is still there. I can see it. I can see the little pieces of paper and plates, some resonance, illegible nonsensical child-warmed by the heat of the butter-tea . Dadali-lama needs to fuck. Gotta get the Jing fling-a-shing-a-shing.
Why else can there be but some nom de plot to the external notions of the realms beyond us, but we see that the goddamn aliens have not compartmentalised some computer science onto disc yet. Perhaps, there are these books? These little alien books I do not promote with PhD website experimental – doctorate – but steady, should I take a cremp. Veclemt.