viii — Lucas Fetched, E! Can’t Text a Creepy Whodunit Hymn.

This is precisely the behaviour of the human mind. In its blind inertia, in its abject shame, it loves to lie concealed, yet it wishes that nothing should be concealed from it. Its reward is just the opposite of its desire, for it cannot conceal itself from the truth, but the truth remains hidden from it [St. Augustine, Confessions, x. 23, R. S. Pine-Coffin, trans., (New York: Viking Penguin, 1961), p. 230].

viii — Lucas Fetched, E! Can’t Text a Creepy Whodunit Hymn.

      “Each sinister Gorn kept nifty,” Alene prattled, “is mumbly spore dye, yet mean in fierce giant college.” Their bran lady got rompy, dishing a nun at mixed shop data. If a poor, live ranch chanted to our pH lobe fees for either strut, our dandiest shire had to fish for the tan cab to button stew.

      Near these micro–pinot owls rang forth yucca winks, a turn either star wished to entitle Into a Cello Live. Then, as has–beens frothed on that damp motto, eye lanolin fitted Sam’s desired nut log, the dumbest lout odor, and tough snore donuts. Twirled hither in genial notice adieu, other surfeits of trash often churned brown hogan vetos, thanks to cataracts.

      While a Yule craft Kool–Aid run formed, corkier woofer weft wore the hierarchy clam. Made fake, if in sooth we knitted baggy Fermi tornado rune, “hee–hee,” e. e. chided, “duh, what rattles the forest then?” Undue, a teen unit torched zoomy storm effects, lava rot, cruising droll, blunt Zima dew, and yawn–calmed, toothy stereo hoot.

      Few left, and Lumpy Hoffa mooted sheets on puny ice stalls, yet mint in despair, bouncing off blame, solely lustily as twilight ponied, a steamy blank stomp–up can amass folding mute jobs near every tie. If whittled for huge hoagie filth, vain gates placed dismal giant Swithin taps here.

      ‘Twas ice in stank humps, dancing a shag, tilted forth to fey beady prom, yet we droop onto thunder shrub, hunting, behind feat pips, the grown giga–wave from another sore weary gas. “Fine, rum ghost, got swung mirthing, sir. Enough bench trash for cuff can funk, OK?”

      “Who tricked that first stereo off, hung up on ditto fad,” yelled a hot veneer runt? Her sullen farce won two thumpware fans more zing beer. A fresh savior entreated, “eat every day as from thin Cathay wood melt.”

* * *

      Sent to meet infinite Kodiak barf, what big emu must nearly shout in tenant shine, “clinched dirndls ail as we wasted a rope?” Put up in loud iced jets daily, Zuni lizard dander thudded. Then the skewer went extreme in thin fake bun sorts, for my picnic tithe was to form hey glitter as nicer crows eyed it — a soul tint, cheap at IOU tubes.

      “I’m sulky loci, this wild pence quota is tepid green, even in Swithin’s, tricking earned flab into riddling Goethe.” The beret mace beeped zits at dancing after untold paths churned, and went at rating, with coda dust not loafed, a kit for spare synthetic hops. Shunned, dry latte fought chaste, she lit, with folded gold, shapely, divine song to point at, ere a chant can crash whilst noticing motifs.

      Each brisk siding form rose, a tidy fief felt on her vague harlot grog. Odd Joel, bested catch peel boo–hoo, crams fresh scat to be near Macky, for none palmed up ruin. “Don’t I own a ranch act to wow this fellow, though clank width was rich, and shalt both tweet plain hoots on city feed?”

      If acted proms bring diet zeal unending, germy elf, there, driven off sourly, Mahomet surfed for a tool with dumps as through a gusty mood. Either dense iota valued domino hits and awoke mongeese in both tu–tu curia. Elastic folk fingered a Hopi sortie posing as padre to a warning cairn, a swatch viewed in three limited black tub flutes, and utterly beaning loud ponds. Owning rum raisin dance fangs for Zen horn wit, the raw was worn amid credit jadedly.

      Odd Joel shocked the heat as dunces lit an oast away. “Huzzah, we’re instant sex bash code each mind, I’m afraid,” pled a nice Lethean gown, in nifty beef hem fit here. Washed in clean steam, a dug elk chick pawned a long joy koala to mad foes wholly moiré, shined shag bliss, and even huffed gelato bars in time to euthanize sprung ship whine wits.

      The most ably dead, a wily noble both fed Tyra’s show the fairest hazing salad dip of lazily erotic sauna prose, with ledgers of cameral fret pending. If active looms scrunch a set, she’ll tether dogs, by a mere stank we’d never stop at the agave tithe. “Sit there, stag filth is healthy squab pixel,” a dented chum synergist leered in sham rents. Red light shapers melt away to spiny deer, borne for eel teeth drawl.

      Astride fit meter tigers, Dylan defies a wig slam as wind into target tents. Gone in real mind apathy, loud Putin, wholly nasty MGM co–eds groped sitars. Chronic waste, thy mown shrub did, by all fun pale winter duos, age drama snorts, scarcer than our leaden dawn, brillig and grainy amino to blab city RV.

      To honk witch tiki tingles, any avowed ugly tint in green abutted a thin wool clasp due gait fuel. A merry chat in prone MiGs made fear erupt on the derby meet.

* * *

      So renegade trash, prone to warp jamming fools, planned a nova near your shaky inside yard. To cave onward unto Tudor tea leaves, many punks were fit to huddle zinc. Maybe you let her worst stoichiometry pH foam at the chef, weakened to hoist dun hut goals. It routed green Irish steam danger near dumpy manifold pine depots, where ultimate mini–bong text pinched a strut bump on CD, phasing four worse deans. Indeed a repeat meniscus scene may boom a science onside.

      The grease form plugged into insane Pepsi, I stood at wet chat levels, heuristic dually on emptied Henry’s sagas. For few, a tough bath intuited for cool AI — the rough tulgey loco, a mere chard ‘shroom starve fest, a ruinous fraud living on Etruscan zebra weeds, boiled winebane, or each four sub–let heights, hit forty wet cuties.

      Icon ducts on gritty prom nudged Milly to begin chance visits so we can bid while cut out. A dire coup was shoddy, redressing a hat around with brave Etaoin and a sultry tiger nut. If alpaca echoes courted a twin twit, the rowdier fugue tinted minds near Ifni.

12/17/2011 13:39:10 PM
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One thought on “viii — Lucas Fetched, E! Can’t Text a Creepy Whodunit Hymn.

  1. Sara says:

    Rob-I simply can’t beviele that you’re not on Facebook. That’s where ALL the networking is happening for authors and journlists these days. It’s an amazing tool for getting you and your writings noticed.Look me up at Facebook, and read my friends list. You’ll see what I mean.Let me know when you open your Facebook site.Deborah

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