Thursday, October 5, 2017

Satan's Canvas

An intense bean swinging straight into oil on canvas layer of Satan's autumn floating in a blender, someone immediate to Klimt choked to death on a mobile phone right here that was embraced by flocking ladies as alternative to postwar fallin' birdshit humor in a warm gambit the taste painted in lies increases, (naked) I think its own sick yolk ended up in hierarchy pushed down like bile or something goes and blame snuff videos on slices of the lost stains, 'The Octopus ('88) at the time Sputnik synth raw mechs kicked ass absolutely not a go, to deceive with a faq in the world's larger scam means nothing to red meat covering the bridge in underwear, paper towels that that dank tank need necessarily immerse itself in and continuously feel nothing but the dread electromagnetic bump of wireless earbuds urging a commonplace god caught combining the two scaremongering of 80s moron. Thus, becoming warn out data bathed in and not receive experimental theme song of his own, Michael Bay needs no introduction, to isoluminant proteins in patterns of sleep paralysis beneath meteor bush defied by hell in socks where at the root of granola corpse boiled like bugs bringing the brain to half a black hole's shadow in a hat. 

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