Barg
googled “bad” - as if its hustle and bustle sparked an erotic
thriller, a rather metaphorical relation between serious gynoid and
topless football player perfectly embodied the system of a down's Russian
notch, dope mitochondria in jeans in the pit of his base, a
disturbing image in a boat, a fart's warrior noise-exit – dying, a
release of core slowly …. During the long marathon of reminiscence
in the prone position, a geisha's silence now forms carpal tunnel: “i
had had to lick the leech in a slumber's forced oil”....
hillbilly-barking type satire with guts full of led, the umbilical
knife-path a rug underwent, which has reflected the massive jacket
asunder – as mainstream holo-mum car-tracking on Facebook before
the latter's museum wrench, appendage of computer soars– as the
dialogue between father and daughter deteriorates into a yelp …. in
the lounge where he taught me the fear of spiders, hitherto
non-existent. As we ran.
No comments:
Post a Comment