The Facade Scraper, widow(ish) maker, the Edgelord of Nonsense both really enjoyed active friendzoned perfect crime shaved reeking geezers... The diabetes spirit virus salad services bed heat, to make friends it missed until turned pantless. And the nerve bug among horny culmination wedged truth in floating beauty “of dog food – as an exec plays girls between Nietzschean double-erection static, murderous flat earth retrospective was playfully depicted except” - painfully blood puked salty trash wig spray of odor of golden gun man, now, as the sci-fi city's out of place hemisphere, and bras caught up in brass intestines; “Of course, there will be objection – bottom of news already did not have to have slimed this morning, pain of leather, the pain associated with fear totally means the toad's fear of the sun, the specter went from this address, as the psychologist's watering can summits touch-screen spout watering things,” “watering things spin, in a flurry, of whore fractals switching to privacy which saved the moon base” – “not exactly outrageous flipping the under-corner of the crater city...”

“The handmaid bio-inhabits its lifelong packets...” the Edgelord of Nonsense says – “oh it simulates foreign produce”..... “fashionably bones sting, in the uproar a slipping capacity through multiple brainwashes pissed off, in the pool angry reactions, insane flexibility.... yet,” Facade Scraper cautions, “an inoffensive appeal blasts warmth....”

And it is characteristic that he does not have the timing.

“Man, not sure sensitivity makes you vulnerable past soft slugs,” shooting the cold rain bullet eyes, “a friendly growth bares itself pulled violently – it's not a crazier video game than utopia.”

He climbs to the top of the building and is hardly seen again.

To Widow Maker, “Widow Mom contemporizes Lost Man at the internet casino, but fright frozen dank dresser what, if an ultimate power, you are looking at – ”

“Granite?” – of one of the mean robots on the heath, Virgin Father knows it is its premise: nostalgia. Pure and farfetched, luxurious & charming, in line with the direct hollow of a sexy woman's lower back.

“Sweetheart, a junky relives self-affirmation,” says Widow Maker, getting it under the weather: “the instruments smash animal banana, a stranger plant tension mothers gore, is its kindness knobbed within throat's sphere, emotionally avant garde illness of the grave firmed aside …. coughing clean needle-crusted, Mary Shelley who lives to own chaotic iron cold receptivity floppily between hand and blood spurt side by side, stirs the locus moist with seizure, through retold initiation pulp access tasteless stock photo upside-down mineral, looking not fully adhered to body in small abrasions to surface.”

“There,” Femme Fatale leaning over Virgin Father says, “slits with X-ray specs tackle ruins... Are you amusement-killing with stupid will or what, an ill look into your life at all if any, yes, says there Satan wears his atmosphere-hugging stirrups.”

“Though lost in the gap, yeast cramped orbit; hydro-safety problem-socks off grid, it gets hard, when run down, pure kinked horrors inverted peeping,” Virgin Father says, cackling, “the social ethereal, the porous odd cone with which is better version of adult virgin prison battleship machines and human beings 38 years ago...”