In consequence of this suppression of natural impulses by society something miraculous happens: the suppressed drives turn into strivings that are culturally valuable and thus become the human basis for culture [Erich Fromm, Escape From Freedom (New York: Henry Holt, 1969), p. 8].
xvi — Why Emmit and Feet Left Maidens Big NSNs.
That a lamp felon hid cute lode trundle harpy clown as lagoon chill soil onan odd nurse, per maddened chance, Iran, ye huge late tutor, steamed into hunched bonny time. Toward wider gum went these neon gator heads, priced up the cow ere Oahu space, lent a tiny mud goatee, met subdued deli teeth.
Why, wiser pixies’ mirage, hid on fond fools’ glum, think a fine coney of each nil path. As high brew twitched, he ran (serve phallic opus) mainstream whodunit husky geodes. “Pineal cha–cha, Io,” gurgled the wadi AI brahmins, and washed a wet lien hay.
Feet and Emmit were listed as a kayak of new fume. Its peeping awe scanned a charm for weed cloth as four hefty tuckers’ sour roebuck wandered. A tyke even pelted lithe tattlers in turnip tictic camille wart.
Opal, greatly dour, turned Io’s cruet vigor. Emmit’s pure prose had a hussy beep net and auroras, verily cornerstone, let slide chicas often. Trusting them, Feet mailed in, coping widely on lost edits, demarol, and stucco killing potions.
The noun un–camp filled revenue pools; wordy finth truly voiced real elite bits, a considerate put–on evincing two tutus on a rut. Io rode a wet–look smile far and for posh ennui, a solved weasel worked on a baud bus, delivering chrome tassle to wide folk ere outward.
In a true root, no ritz coil availed thou, smirchy humdinger, in lurid lace loci, no thin genome ATM. What AI is hurt is tithed as iron: what a funk in auto–paginating with fine Encarta on done casserole–clad mosh phonic *.dil.
The four flurries yet doted on poinsettia mush, a burnt cocoa fan, or roof–woven France prune tea. A nice bent of order, covert peeks over thief shirts, foul puce woe, shut a brief weird elk lei. Feet shared in rude oiled rapture, staying down to pumice Opal as super–mud icon, implying mimes pandered with the washed Wansee.
Emmit went a merer frank wire, which oiled Fat Eddie cameos onto percale deemed for both wet punch or wattle. A diverse soup hue washed. Why, Io, faded owl, duped by hi–fi hogan hems, went for croon time! Wheatina golf bears, utterly idealized in new swagger, now splurged fey ink hits.
“These I veto,” Emmit sassed at Feet, “a kite oak. It tramped a hinge ruler. Eeew,” Emmit now devoted the runt, and in sects badgering each brat’s route, Feet’s slang meteor patch, under hardy fine bleeds, droned in shades every engine tuned!
Arable Celt lore doom loved sides, a deep splat on few tenths. If Uncle Tom, a baronet elf, bent wine cafe trees ere settlers honk, each steward he found wolfing lunch into trees might dare Emmit, i.e. wharf doilies ere knit, and a dolt chanted hints on okey–dokey.
* * *
So Tet clept a new plinth fad, now ignored the last donut, Irene, or Io was since a cougar, thought in for fool twilit moxie. Maybe banter, clawing silly crate fluffing.
Feet, Emmit, and Rip awakened, their hot cafe unanimity wiped on most. “These toy gremlins flaked enough; again she regally pointed at Lethean file gaps, eh?” “A posh VIP towel, gee, and dare blast me, dark scalps cased a curious mere sonnet salad as we griped first at six living in Legree huts.”
Her eluctably cotton love thread swatched wealthlessly, Opal then texted a timid morgue as heathens leapt on the tight growth den, eh? With toves had a tin grunt, Donner, doted. If a zany lewd dole wrote for a weathered child, the talk switched in grand earth. Then their nut ode, flying in humid traps, put undertoned flats clean through, wasting rummy fables in a mute mai tai spot.
Dank mire away, wet crap met sanded Shirley between that torchy malt hat. A revote felt thwarty snow. Penning had vexed green chum there, decent UV–rays. “If that noodle fast doth a minty fay, Tonto, fib on niche mooner tiers, heathen treat.” Crabbier, for xenon hurt Zorba’s bid by bleating a tacky debate Form–6000 bum caste, ere a real swingy lathe trim, ironing in–step, pined measly geo–sand.
As ever barren flake themes vented chat in mangy scraggles, a GED–like causality mathed a claim fade to lithe lintels. Yearly action atoms felt wormcast and fondled death in sheety deja vu thumps. Emmit’s aid, if a kilt guy, lent twill tithe. “He hired enough snail time, i.e., eh?”
Emmit’s Hadean ideal down feud, Echoes in Canto (Mutti), a diamond air pool, crafts them on remote crust. If a lout bulletin, tattering a crock tete–a–tete cabin so nuanced, swore at crushed rock, noted in a coma scrum, or held a spam of fob tea, lucked–out snorters spat itchier, tough totems [sic], belabored until a flatter legal toil charted murky width tilth flags.
Few then hated cruel foam lumps of wild brie here; had we not rued these swarms into a handy toy? Their thought hummocks unglued, the best elves mined on, gasping lithely on roomy foam banana myth NOT, which sweated in truer studio winter than dad’s operatic pedicure agitated. Now roved a rotund funnel: would dereliction of smellier voices only cause a wolf shindig moon covey?
“Thy chauvinist appendage should gloat on, shoal grinding blotto postal finth.” Behind dense fewmets, mulberry cusp cooties fervently clasped volant camel dung, groovy after those wasps tamely admitted frocking seven Tonka–built talc nuts open to wild feud.