xvii – Their Tiki Dialogue Cent Bias.

…that was not at all a reason why he should not have those sensibilities to the odour of authorship which belong to almost everybody who is not expected to be a writer — and especially to that form of authorship which is called suggestion, and consists in telling another man that he might do a great deal with a given subject, by bringing a sufficient amount of knowledge, reasoning, and wit to bear on it [Mary Ann Evans, Felix Holt: The Radical (New York: Penguin, 1995 [1866]), p. 235].

xvii — Their Tiki Dialogue Cent Bias.

          A REM eddy, born magnet drum to wow Israel that wane, foaled plumb years, yet when Eve’s gin suit, hewn each strain, drank wet bed tea, both a bird yeller and green fog gums soon imagined their toll concerns. After fear of lunch angers their theater talk, I’m mute against bonny vita, etc., and neo–Alpine DDT.

          Fortescue & Bitsy, sweating out 21 nard rallies and toy juice vents, wanted what they most minded: Harvey’s Ohio icicle area tap, flowing in solid wealth to spook weeded penguins who toured, ere far fads of bonnet flair, incursion argot. Tithing foiled melt in the aura of many just corners, a swan mashed bogus icons; tidy famed Lucite fairs scheme to loot faith.

          If everything in Horatio’s fetch ran cones, a ghost detail pampered a polite Afro school, where junky Louvre tea united flimsy ghetto deer with sleepier hidden tone. In a dull gamey croft, gazing on her pain, Grover was foamy, and yet, seemlier than license from a lucid goober, sang on feasting camp each proof.

*        *        *

          A dry, musty herd left, giving vain bends again. Oregon’s faint mullah to clarify, a huge topographic (one didn’t abandon the sad), cashiered while simply adjunct to the dawn, sired viral unfirm farina flair. Briefed into a fern log to link goggling larvae pulses there, a thief, bluntly flexing germy clamp tort, stepped by trivial scenic bay bandsmen.

          A deep filth log, relevant script to preen dead meat, the cuter shark cleared more gay tubas into serene arch–duds. Kept where a limp thing drew for quite the percale cut–out, coochier Conan, sent by *.winnt in 24 gala onsets, saw a civil notary clot up ruins.

          So a crew simply soured myth, ere their bitter ‘oui’ chanced to heave filth against fierce Cain. Soon, old 124–piece Jenga dragons formed Fink City Tunes. They clung on slushy Greek earth as sleepier gremlin walls had leerily found their legend. Those rigid fruit keepers saw filth poised to rumple a tinny grommet hanger, when frantic minds alongside pink dream genes danced to many things.

          A thermal train beaker tricked even Acorn TV, scooting on chancy items to mail cones of cold lazer until they fit into this poised axle. A feast groaned near soul malice for tipsy dim love. Only Goths might melt a sick curd or belch the dorky Goethe film kit.

          Kilted fish doles loomed unto a trim Inca cane to reverse onyx measles. Then Anaheim divers kited Greek earth. In clinking teeth went a mud cheer, egad for any mighty tall placebo. We gave stew on spilling money. Thrown past a deep head, I saw all evil bust this loud twill kite tomato.

          Maintained in steep shame, plaid mosh drag I sew, decrying at least that I left God to align about clammy crack, even hoarded into yawny surfer sheet mews. Under more tetra icicles, movie mold data got final penance. This bent chalked the referee’s stock memo, A sylph sank repeat wire, or, leave a madman quiet in May. They cling to old ways, Twinkies, white–out, hi–fi, and drum those pews of beast law, clinching the dazzly snort.

*        *        *

          Here, a sport ruin barely fired, trivial burdens begin visiting her, at least to pry that various woven lima ditch. One for mutiny, an old groom soiled my gingham kettle gum hexes. Sour saint Mother sewed nine chirpy dens on a few chitlins and led grime into their tang vent node.

          As REM shapes must delay a lay pew held virgin, I washed churls under scorn of due iron. Amy’s stew left lethal pails of flu. “Uh–uh, each grape scans separate city tunes, steely carts, brash planet he did drool.”

          But a deep mesh sanded an eco–elf den that not any boot via ego tube. Chaim got urchins to thought in gas dye, cueing Idaho. Ere soupy Sunday sold Nehi on cactus candles, money tilted at the twelfth cricket toy dude as his wild starlet wife didn’t fool many.

          So duly, men fed a fun raft, fenced in soil by plankton meal. Why, a lactic yawn even drew dirty, cruel sitars inside their engines. Often, we lowered scallops, swathing under meek, dour memos. In a bohemian hedge, the girls land a vivid, worthwhile stasis. “Timid Fester shalt swap tight cider,” Timon glared, “Malmsey patch, or bent tea love. Rely on duty ethos, head south, shredding new lore in lieu, a mouth wort!”

          In the koi studio quay, mind gags yet yawned out nods, daring mink, pawned near many by Monet, to fit moist souks. We only bathed onto Gothic finality to fume, “e. e., peanut sibyls when house trash askew?”

*        *        *

          Mild night burgeoned, I caret into scary myth women, if via memo writ dances, and blamed sales results left in dinkled fences. Seeing your mittens in covert heat, should we mice start death in due mind? Every caftan agreed this sot, its film for acting wine really briny, bedded huge snit promos ere booms screw a silly angina.

          Old motives scream at worm wig punk, we’re Gallic. This vile yawn must foil due yi–ki in odd wide tilth nettle mush. As I cheered, whom a dim hay strife on fewer dive scene, her fast warp into papa girl wart men mooted whole. Except on high fades, isn’t froth that special stash here?

          A rapid sweat paid slugs to hunt lame fronds, peeking on huge doom and fainting. Oh, what country dread bent Luke! Should each hide in Piedmont miasma, he can munch south with mouses under a deep love part, as the leaky cilantro memo, due either Seattle, left a dirge.

          If Ohio were aged, a bug cloud might shape excellent ink when moiled. Another big gin sank those diluted firetraps ere Tonto hit their wire, grieving, with e. e., for blase Lulu’s demesne of greasy tune–out, a beer wham, and lone M&M pity tracks.

          To cage punk mafia is quite inept, given a dream gone for social dash again stomped on Zen.

~the end~

 4/26/2012 11:55:09 AM.