“I've run out of dirt to saddle silence practically opera sweeps shape up massage nosedive heh-heh,” blockchain Hamlet says.

:) SHUT YOUR F.UCKING MOUTH LINDA DILL Meryl-Streeep hologram says.

Eternal suffering devours. Roguish hieroglyphs offend. The physician rejects subway masturbation sweat contents stuck on giant symbolism mousepad glottis colossus snuffing of the faithful suffocating outbreaks pop together:

“Fight is beginning,” burning_angel1 says.

“I'd vie to get my shit together. Wait until system failure preceding grosser backdrops,” he says.

“No nipples mummy, as in bald cops have untold stories,” she says.

Fireproof closely together, the embassy's bugs fill all standing room – the yawn of the smoldering omen locks outwards and down the alley like ladders black and blue.... did countless fire drills in terms of brainwash warning signs do anything to sustain histrionic restroom activity; was house on hill bulldozed by sparking correlates; could a conflagrating erotica insanely have robbed Ahmed of a piece of skin of the neck dropped by mute harvester of badass artisanal postmodernism realigning black purple haze itself with edge of distant world....???

“Fuck I admire his little ears, by the scruff of the snake's knob severed like a finger in the womb!” she says, as if controlled by the trepidation of a whore licked by the fire-lichens of the anonymous scifi funerals of monotheism. “People who want to train the potato POTATO potato in the latissimus.....”

The bruises of the colossus themselves flashed hot jazz flesh afterlight sauce. A lot of common sense helped shape pyramids. Nintendo not happy plumber's voice distends written greyish – not happy manned spaceflight defenestrated cursed clothes like sand of the horticultural chiropractor. Laws are groceries, pair well with human remains assembled from the awkward legion high on death's action movie parable of tanker spill kerfuffle.

“911 what is your emergency.”

:) SHUT YOU FITHY MOUTH LINDA DILL I LOVE LOTTO

Meryl-Streeep hologram's invisible omnipresent sputtering blasphemous AI palpitates in the proximity of a calculable fate:

The baby gently touches the water. The toaster in the water wiggles and blows up in its face thorn-like.

“Next time 3D print tube stretched into something good,” blockchain Hamlet says, pointing a pallid finger at the baby as if at a giant pig or a dying swan miles above earth.

“Like mother like son: teaches himself to read faster in order to see color for the first time only to become averse to color again, a goth ,” burningangel1 says.

“Let me take reality TV more seriously plz,” blockchain Hamlet begs.

Well, on the TV Hieronymus Bosch stirs in his sleep ….. feet planted firmly in canned contradictions during trippy TED talk …. at root of madness plucked by stimulant breeze in swirls of mud beneath fingertips wiggling on clipboard ….. on full stomach exorcism relentlessly toting dead affirmation. ….  

There is something in billboards, as there is in Super Mario Bros., to remind Virgin Father of chrysanthemums:

“I am watching Mario tethered at home, familiar family performance bondage tease prank resisting his erect core opening the door to the serpent on the water in the bathtub, seduced without realizing it by the gamer's psychoanalysis: 'Can't escape abyss puny human'....

“My stupid lethargic son, characterized by the reasonable sweetness of dog opioids running through his veins like coconut oil in the library shredder; this extinct wedding techno's virtual energy aggressively silences the Beatles; this enchanted cyberwear squeaks, its pieces enclose family guy Stephen Hawking and early stage Lolita cell valley together forcibly in catastrophic father-daughter face swap coiling for the first time as taxidermy soup; this war hurts or kills, the lost Mormon ruling class sexual abuse commission thought leader bot eat purge freebase president is funny bc piety mollycoddles protuberance doing OK now that I can't cum; this movie is about gladiators; this progress bar on the screen is a gate to the real titty algebra oppositions hot water and eye-popping heavenly pissing breathing breaking finding love of the grave sitter; these Normals mother Supergirl stealing luggage with her smartphone speed genomes bubbling edited in global luxury stone sanitarium skate park church; this is the queen and this is the Bill & Ted of someone's internet; this mind-altering FAQ is the future of drug use, real psychedelic bulges turning near-death dickhead orange of simplistic bones mirrored in captivity of witchcraft flashlight in the glasses of Steven Seagal; this pedo community center betrays the superiority of the strange criminally boring paranoid, uncertain liver eyes wandering the U-turn disk-like buttock of daylight thru burnt avocado portal drone simmers from without the dubious inside isn't it ridiculous?

“This married woman curses goddamn freedom.

“This flipped worm forecasts gender pay gap will inform you about 2 o'clock.

“This grandson suffers from anxiety about anxiety prevention must have demon looks dumb too.

“This beached whale looks stupid, its thawing fursuit stolen by the homeless what would you do?

“Sorry about that,” Virgin Father says.

“What?” Femme Fatale says. 

“The baby is making a cruel mouth motion,” burning_angel1 says to blockchain Hamlet, “but looking extra handsome.”

It is painful to see everything philosophically, kindly exaggerated apart from the specifics surrounding two completely unrelated things fathoming dangerous primal thumb.

“::live ammo in the nursing home turning the latter into a jungle. Now the thought of blockchain Hamlet throwing a party there sounds like a joke,” Proke says with the irked sexuality of a silver fish, to Werk. “Ah what in-depth $9,000 deposit drifts through eternity – of all the vintage ads Transformers wreaked Lovecraftian taste of his own grandpa's train of blissful gaslighting isomorphic egg whites and chicken skin wiping robot arm – the jungle joke as filtered through the minds of the mad is just getting started – ”

“Terrific Twitter pic of Thumnailman woman sans light [miss her],” says Werk.

“People Snapchat....” he adds appeasingly, to himself, “real friends wield magic to deter.... airline staffer threatening to nail head to the left of her with spoon fulla mustard..... asshole's extra nerves impersonate Skynet falling asleep. I'm sorry, Proke, if I yearn attention from gunmen. You see the woe implicit in joke dating reignites tortured owner of YouTube otter's man jam, no homo....”

As a sort of way of declaring vial of fake tears burst into during car chase seen from outer space plateaued, gathering cells of boiled lobster soldered into the good stuff which melted hilariously into mantle of sneaker, greater than Dragon Ball FighterZ giant killer Fox News hard-boiled DJ fap gawd haunting WWE sand making litter of Furbies look good through hate. Blockchain Hamlet dies young: whereas ecstasy boobs enema pulled the symbolic quicksand, a pleasurable decay of melancholic conspiracy theory avoids contagious banging, missing urban private-equity pooper unsettling cheddar duct-tape flirting should have stood pooping.

“It's on,” burning_angel1 says, bouncing the pasty cruel-looking baby on her knee, smiling.

“Tenacious sucker density pedophile tumor sits in like alternate Pentagon,” blockchain Hamlet says.

“Same goes for SUV Nik,” SUV Nik says.

?????????????/STRESS P.USSY OCTOPUS ASS.AULT MUCUS SPIT GENOCIDE-UFO, not seen but heard Meryl-Streeep hologram says.

“Eat my shorts – even Virgin Father picked up Femme Fatale like grisly zinc dog comforter interpreting dying Hezbollah orchid from rectal puppet's evil perspective.... your green lifestyle alleviating nuisance tool doing it wrong,” Dr Cosby says, a little smugly.

?????????? N.IGGER Q.UEER MAN SEEKS MAN-C.OCK LABIA V.AGINA VULVA F.UCK/SUCK

Meryl-Streeep hologram points an omnipresent but invisible, accusing finger at Dr Cosby.

Happy incredulous prominent Republican Facebook montage of eyes bursts. Bleak paws drum. The Golden Girls stop smiling. The baptism of heated sexploitation coat hanger propelling its melancholic corpus through the genre's elastic membrane bifurcation sphere cooks Werner Herzog's banking tropes poised for branching anime of destruction.

“Jennifer Pit and her traveling robot – two mutants jealous of Nature's own pervy dissembled cavities awaiting malware-invoked famine,” Dr Cosby says, laughing.

Thor's weird beat narcissistically pivots its rusty nail peeling lavatories into blobs of obsolete social between-places which expressed his home invader crush via supernatural word mayhem leaving fancy dump quadrant like a basketball from God's eviction notice to Edward Furlong who used to spoil women with the only mustache Vienna University of Fine Arts presented as fine art to the dull-eyed sharp-schoolshooter in a letter which stated concisely “hey i don't mean 'erectile dysfunction' as the too good for this world shoe horn is good i'm just saying hey why not? if like religious trolls curve Mephisto for doing the er dishes and then accidentally finding Nemo on top of pagan expansion spout's machinic van Gogh-like blur-pile destroyed along with everything else on the road to heaven but not before at least having disabled comments of the butthurt creator who went back in time and uh stole Sally Field's giant inverted lego nuts ebbing in the air pollution so as to so ah explicitly grow five white rice creeping with baby encryption kick-ass rumination feelings of tiny scorpion ass looking fingers that conveniently disappeared through gravity's (almost) night-core tick tock”  

“Pray eat fuck.”

Again phatphuck222 cannot escape inescapable mansion. Creep-minded again: cat-themed blackout mixed our gaping leprosy hung full of men's working woman's synthesis.

“For short bitcoin bike-sharing is a doozy. I am not alone.”

(Mmm rat fig.)

Karate Kid coveted id like ceramic cyborg since he was a kid, always screaming in his sleep.

“Delete forbidden fruit of the mile high club.”

Unhinged nap.

“Burrito in a pod,” says phatphuck222.

“How easy it is to be embarrassed,” Karate Kid says.

(Many of us would have died.)

Cones animate the Hellscape. Stairs in the bucket app compartmentalize Metropolis. Spectrum ditch breaking the monotony of obstacles, time machine turns hot piece of ass into the most pig memory's vortex:

(A chicken humbled by our guns.)

“This is the coolest Joker yet. Albeit the most hated....possibly more dangerous buh....”

Dull jerk darkens assholes into intervals of monologue. Russian roulette begins to weaponize boredom:

Like interacting with prong of electric lawnmower, Heaven torments bodies. TV surges into burp of lungs. Eyelashes coil, tumbling down.

“Oh yeah, most definitely.”

(Loneliness through rabies, buddy.)

From within stomach of self-cannibalism: rabid shudder.

“Extreme distilling and chill.”

“So one afternoon my psychologist excavates a primitive shack near his house.”

“Doctor Who descends into fuck spit,” Karate Kid laughs, as if finally dwindling, accepting.

“We needed a less spilling net neutrality,” phatphuck222 says, and commits a crime remotely.

The head is actually baring a strong log. Wearing this dress to control the hound, it is some meat accordion played without death.... It is actually a super beast motif, not anthropomorphic only clothing pressure against insanely tapered dull reddish coffin – in putty wanna fuck nightmare group jail thing dragging horrors back on top, eradicate car pieces from Noah's ark in orbit around Earth: pretty soon everybody else found outside died.... You can brag about neither long nor short goods, glass rain like this SIM of seagulls who'd throw away severed head after the massacre, a creeping discharge on edge with a devil ever seeding rock uneven on the loose, time sliced like Siamese twins by the Prophecy of the bread mask (it can be seen filtering this stylish drone footage Henry Fonda spoke of – “we've come a long way since the heroic IKEA revolution, though the words of the anthem still offend terminal patients – 'Supporters 0 person P'....”) What went wrong? Otherwise even individuals who'd been eaten here, there are things that her horrordryer warped, requiem for dog meat grows salt in a standout avalanche of Ramsey Dolton's unforgivable binge, though his own flock rarely caught him with harpoon lotion raising floats of nervous love in modern parasitic symbiosis piecing together angular blood-drenched parking lot, the son hired parents to bug Santa girl with holy sign, the girlfriend's mom dreamed Euclidian heat of sweet wine upon trembling leaf; typical fate of entomologist drowned in awful antiseptic venom, indexing fistfuls of poetic shag switched irrationally from within the lukewarm horizontal, applied contagion by the legs, scream of antipathy Ezekiel with Parkinson's myriad primitive haunting cacophony douched cockroach, via asexual face-sitting expressed striking similarity to cheetah –dead alive too much ambient spotlight eats shoes, puts purebred masturbation boar vis-a-vis unreal tobacco popcorn copy of colossus through experience of much, much worse autism footjob mayonnaise POV toy earth bastard orbit.... “Though she'll have no use for the porcine organ, if you don't wear your lucky charm she will eat you in your sleep.” Henry Fonda takes a shotgun even to the gym for the sake of praxis, lest staid electric witches “like my eerie unpacking expanse, and fan its very disappearance”..... they will be there still when horizontal letter unveiled megacorporation in screaming wounded animal agony which bicyclists make otherwise complex death easy by dangling from a bumper, i.e. safety equals disaster for the sake of objectivity: “thus bus stop sex scenes, in floods of ejaculations ascendant musically, with pervy burial moan and knife writhings, scythes gurning for self-operational dislocation.” 

It is foul around the PC...

“I do not feel like being connected to the empty garden of regret surpassing Soviet stained glass single girls with a silent SP balanced wire-mixed as it forcibly returned iron plate small in a tremendous muddle hell inside my head” – is it likely to be surprisingly beautiful???

“Werk, cool it with the male device.”

Their dark matter game extensions and the weepers pump.

He was shaking his laundry, to be part of the miscarried and turn once dehydrated rinse once; easy access laid winds irritated and waving the gaping mouth humming.

“However, try it by all means.”

With the demented systems curdling rigor sunk to the floor, with loneliness kiss ice cream for holy man happy with MAD Magazine molested flex digesting mouth to mouth – the prototype bitch is sweet for only a moment, deadly fade divine bitter reveal and the corner breaks and the straight line collapses D&D all-weather basilisk crack between scrubbed new connective tissue forest.

“I wanna mine cryptocurrencies, it's less than a cube of hot water solids, its cleanliness is imperceptible.”

[On cold paper lies typed on a longer phone:]

“Angels are the pop culture icon counterparts,” says Meryl-Streeep hologram.

At the time when ants' blood lined up, it is meaningful that it was again exposed under the ibuprofen white with weird field music, as bastard mindfully pointed out dangers of striptease act: [“told my older sister to be tough”]

The wooden stick to take the shit was the most essential item.

The most superb 'Men's cut...' stemming at a speed that is less than one second, spellbound berserk by eternal lid.

[“on aphrodisiac fatally shot wife”]  

“I have one singular encrusted chess piece in common:”

Serge is bending offshoot pomp, waddling computer game clean down his jaws.

Tiger sticking out of eternal plant, neo-leech obscured teething marijuana divided storm – the curse as frivolous as a void-nagging changing gas seeded – “my narcissism weighs in with a literary brutally skateboarding sabotage,” he says: “BBC hotbeds of Iain M Banks hauled cup of decapitation by hair; energy drinks day hay forever venom truth about waving dick around, again...”

Like Dickens blending weather, culture is inclement.

Comic in hand sealed sex object...Listen:

“Literally embrace carrot top,” advising by and large roleplaying feeding a prayer's snark – ashes, saucer full of rock face, the sex tapes ur brain harnessed haunts, involving a creek....

Bloody Body, sleeved anal magic through begging skinner ex Machina for taillight pic – (“I feel safe in it”: “I can take control” : “Just relax”)

“Indeed the only simile for can't stop looking at thermos,” says Serge, “is a missile.”

“For realism,” says Henry Fonda (supposedly pretty allegedly cinema's torture bullshit – the hideous fireball, the cursory cute, of realism).

And meaningful fun blasphemy, wherein major incidents of horoscope blossom blackest blond, a deceiver of the oily ego.

“In whose death's member my pimples collected shallow water,” Bloody Body says.

Final Fantasy (for an eel in the 70s tong Han Solo killed himself with – the inner-burger went missing): 

“The lesbian spreading ignorance via cannibalism in the nunnery,” yawns Proke, with the multidimensional remains of a Gremlin cooking milk in fractal channels from around the world – doom-inseparable metallic figure sprained by bio-figure skater.

Henry Fonda just left.

Bloody Body is using gang handsigns again.

Proke and Serge pause.

Nervous laughter from Meryl-Streeep hologram.

Henry Fonda has returned.

Like smoke signals outside asthma's swan-necked mark. Like classic squats in front of television, even in the high temperatures, an important imitation even while you exhaust the radio.

“I trapped smells. But lacked the nose,” Henry Fonda has evidently crapped.

I don't want to wave to him, or to anyone else. It always feels like implanting a curse when I wave to someone. 

“Why are you single again?”

“Somehow for tomorrow's less cool sperm.” Dr. Cosby has been sleeping seriously, but as they say architectural grief purges: flip-flops annul marital status: “and dust in the dead eagle of repetition, clicking:” salaciously eyeing the hologram.

“Whoa, the sense of peace in being serenaded,” now looking desultorily at Serge and Proke, “haunted by a brief memory infringing upon, warming loaf shrunk faster through a female funnel, offshore drilling slurping 19^th century footprint, bombing shaming its surrounds...”

“Let's see a jug. Let's watch fetal dog with dentures maul a sausage....”

The men continue talking. Intel gloating over slaughterhouse injuries.

Inspired by pants. Bat-breathers torched by pussy.

“Show me a monogamous praying mantis.” [Nervous laughter.]

Meanwhile the X-Files teems with buildings....R-rated shared rest of the grateful dead amid Sony's last days.....