Wednesday, October 11, 2017


Knotting noise into piss bumps of joy, Don Draper from The Office had a tendency to struggle, like a mall cop he looks at the demon, shoots fatally, bad expeditions amid mishaps had before it's too late, before it's here, Marxism, last meal request in the mirror, analyzing the structures destroyed by twice the Bitcoin, by weed that makes you high, occasionally scary at a fault in the decluttered diamond, prank stuff, mute tomb, its mutant already unmanned it, conflicting gun violence with happiness and AIM in its box, within which the Star Trek wonderful tiny room fragments of Whole Foods quit, united, then the real sauce through groping computer simulation of Jerusalem sunburnt, becoming friends, prologue drug, during summer via SUV rally around adult-sized flag like two women, faux break into casserole-themed micro-rave doomsday secretly, nursing flexible sex-python turned blue, the grey porg crams seas to prevent the walking dead's death-snorting flowchart oscillating between Kodak-offensive and bleak life, that which speaks that consecutively steals meaning, appreciating the mass-produced more than the raw, e.g. the rare, or the silent insight from seats that face backwards in self-driving cars, ramping it up, tampering with the conspiracy theory about female Jedi retiring in their 20s or 30s because their salt is that real, that which male fish seatbelt gender the best place in.  

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