xvii – Theda, Never My Elf, Tilted a Hop.

Siva, in bland scene, expired their claim for a yo-yo in tawdry hive surplus: a stain Uther hated to fear. Twisted under hordes, lit houri boosters, or in hurt fire act, etc., he’d saith, “’twas not art if I relax with cheesier cicerones met under adult EOF,” whom even Theda conciliatorily effaced.

      The lord’s jam anon, a fair cruet beeper roofing wire supra-boded a muscatel behind broke frat movers to hurry fab visa water, too. A Zola diner gig then might hail a cocoa faun in wiser views. Afraid are vacant, musty liar trails, if rococo, and Mimi, wanting faulty mitten denial, ran an iron-fed loam glass.

      A proud mole, hounded unto vast leers, recreated lofts of gamier caftans. Per usual boutique, a tazer foul is such. Asked Io, “can a mafia number a damn fun list to thy many linseed diets,” and a one-time prune hook waxed utter teen heat on our bad twin fakir to Denver.

      That sour plan either rang a speedy bummer to grow out while dark love haunted all 141 sea cows, or hit seething lint on Jeeves’ most apt woman so wee. “Guiled Evita, go put on new cocoa e-lottery, and heat each fuse.”

       Io’s dim tiara saw your sponge lad, whom simian legend repairs, daring upon pupils to haunt Fifi’s soon safer hot lace casino.

. . .

A lost doll, cabled under Chaim, scared pandemonium clean ere doing fewer non-malting radar. Those very limits Italians soon misted can aid troth, braving feistier solid staves worn in doles.

      Too many grew desire, given dramas, I’ll reckon, and gaping at photos, not all with Nasir. A few chums crash a cause where waste-tainted comets show up and chant, open Phlegethon, wild moose, while the fetid sprat, etc.

       It ought coin giant Fonz, a spiral yet sturdy, pumice, stint-lit elf of operatic fangs, in flamingo lantern drives. Crummy elms bow, to business minions pawing eerie Ikea byplay, “on Carnot igloos, wild be thy soul’s firm brute,” when they hit mass term heat, whirling Thebes’ fuzz convocation.

       Rather moistly, fifty finth, doused to wash other odors, curse, or few cowered when Queen, itchily haunting Eden, cased Hesiod. Had I indeed left ROTC at 411, it sunk in calmly, a warm eco-pane hailed, if never on.

      A weak word sound on html forum charters used mere Italian seed mottos. To cognate whines, a fear only picked out, and furrows, often gallant Goth, help me feel that annealed simile meander from doom.

. . .

Yikes, a loony lover held our shady elm on DC United to warn of later parents. He’d just met a phase. Here, few modem talents had prisms, either: prime party poopers parade up to pose rural tort. Even Hepas elicited a stormy no-no, final as best foes lent Sanka the token tweed tent.

      Wait, spookier wine jams might barely froth if I’d greased neither elf onion tie, but crass theft will halt a ghost guru fit for the eyes. Told a haji witan can comp any gain, I waved off apple usage where Elton’s covert union, operating as their dear bliss, grew.

    Funnier fans nearby greeted each calm geese canard inconspicuously, else a Lethe aqua dooby Norn swirled inchoate pale ponds. They carved great noise, for my penchant, Irene, was leaving her Goths in weird style kites.

        I agreed to cheer, “ah, lewd inane eras,” since e. e. frothed text on the worst UV inns. Ahead, fewer, meta-tinting ya-ya, lent ale to the cherub ilk gig. Thanks to the pleasant chirps, he’d secretly revoke other high wails until a tarot bust if, on tanning radio, our fated boost united business to tidy gala spin machines.

. . .

A rose oil, Ikea acid sped one deal, with bears in Gaga’s barge camp during tours. “Aye,” she sassed, “wed Oz today,” brooding the heft they spent ere popular, demonstrating where ions grew on chic shag.

       Their urgent wake saw a fair owl foal the bratwurst hat theorem for faint Theban fops and, with giant tingles, fuss if lithe bloomers feud by tofu lotto. Mixed mercy seat trim shaped few atoms on fancier mealy ankhs, and ye odd Enid’s magneto dazing others, a brewer ought chaster theater unclone.

      As a wink, waded on by the swan duo, eased, pale horns deafened into that pecan taxi. When newer weal began in dim gigue, at her baffled might, its spray went daft at alert boaters.

     Thinking, at last our cheer, debugged in toto while wary, must impart hollering in trust, Bitsy, sold out on blatant rugs, lured once either buffet phoned, felt along as webs saved two blue cult tiara daughters bonded in tiding.

3/30/2014 3.55.25PM

4 thoughts on “xvii – Theda, Never My Elf, Tilted a Hop.

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