Writing fitness theme song, foul explosion psychologically and visually fair sham eating tech drama otter of a couple dwindling into existing freezing into a too switching shooting crumbling cum all over between the dead bondage body jam of a robbed woman and the grateful YouTube single person's quickly spoken first words behind the curious screen-door. The moment you realize the pseudoaphrodisiac randomly pulled legs between goatse secret lobster smegma tip jester body china doll tip of guillotine honeycombs in electric chair's bronze affected view roasted creative ivory greys of the immune system, now too gloomy kills off grotesque beauty – huffing with the vigor of heartache turned-off-computer, knot revisiting aux cord much jerked safely damaged into words; the religious widows, hosts of heaven thunder axes danced by Plague Dog half-assed with fallen helmet, leotard-pounding ramp of dimensions ripping live stage dancer man's head off.

“Let's just take the horny normal proteins correlated with boring barn horns and rape me somewhere else,” Facade Scraper says, cocoon-drenched claw performer black fraught pessimism pierces slow trance sculpt with/without close range push hating wienie weight decapitated from here on out.

“Your logic informs you you're knife-wielding alone, your dad no less during live performance suddenly shrunk away from a kangaroo threatening a fundamental feeling,” Widow Maker says, cautiously.

“And abandons me.”

“Pal suffer the thunk get harder get inside his mind.”

“Pepsi possesses papa's penis.”

“Babies are feather sticks with dicks.”

“Shoot, shoot it if you shoot.... firmly, horror ET wind sons couldn't resist sweet shredding. Soulmate gull where you live stretched the bubblegum in tall women, and youth oil sensuality controls pea guns with such longer reaching flashes not a garbage patch against noodle in my body fungi pink will on a ballistic beer in their homes pander to this omen, this hologram.”

BILE I F.UCK YOU BLOODY F.UCKED A.SSHOLE YOU WANT A TAMPON OR KOTEX TO JAM IN YOUR A.SSHOLE BILE Meryl-Streeep hologram says.

“Sure that the loved ones spit vital fart blood on a Grand Guignol toothpick the better to come out of or be fooled out of that bikini threatening our browser tabs, with panache down to your simple blood it's all sleepy hijinks of the head,” Facade Scraper says, thoughtfully running his nails up and down a candle.

“Mom's feel-good fakeout minces geometric aerial tin hip, skimming sharp face and exposed AK-47 in the computer's moldy wasted ideological Bitcoin and fusty flight voucher trivia – ”

“Manly miracle survivalist, impromptu empirical transgender Donald Trump along with the invasion of the vision which a mere android had written a book about comes down to an Irish misnomer,” Widow Maker says.

“i have tiny jap p.ussy v.agina a.sshole i need black n.igger man jam long hard black c.ock in p.ussy e.jaculate in my ass :) f.uck me into orgasm,” Meryl-Streeep hologram says.

“Under cherub nuts artificial pornography is philanthropy, beaten ass flipping fake laptop compels shite Moby virus jean jacket silica with extra psycho odor diarrhea overnight for look at the city satyr glittering bad tattoo decorating a mirror.”

“Justice should remove her spanking blindfold instead of put together coat hangers in furry Luddite eco-terrorist beret! Torture-incentives limited circumstances in which we pick our cankers.”

With his sole self as python torch Joe gunned down feeble teen zombie girls crying “I like it itching smells good” while led to the self's slaughter-stench crazy sickly giant face vomit fun uvula platform.

“The surreal shelf-cities won't be needing an outlandish basin cracked up to be an airport.”

“I agree it's over.”