Friday, September 21, 2012

TERRARIUM

I really love the light on this hamburger. It had followed the dirty directions of the Yeti's mons. The naval would unfold during rest, whereas before its personality was rather slight. Why turn one's pet's jizz's causation into a study? Such transmissions are terribly single-celled. The tungsten nurse getting jiggy with holes in the ground. Off those lights, the moth is sluggish, the Dalek is pimped out with prefab Crazy-Armor, and my circus-skinned big head needs a transplant. Hoe en masse. Hoe the pitch black compounds that wrap the slippery gnarl like the mosaics that give Disney its fake-looking sores. Sombre dinosaur, I challenge your vague claspers. Office stationery are an organism used in arthritic porn. That discolor upon being forgotten. My affinity for chewing my pencil. My pencil's affinity for probing my froth. See below for what could make the contraption: a) Jesus lizard across one's eyeball grooves, b) loathe ping pong so much as to fall completely silent mid-back arm. Over time the time machine has retained its shelf-life and pizazz. I told the formaldehyde that its kitsch sack was busy taking my soul and I told the shit-smeared underpants caught on the left wing of my time machine that it was a perfect accessory for my burial. It was so beautiful because it was so stationary on my time's gale, a Pac-Man blob's gait matching the surroundings of its terrarium.

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