A lost, unbathed value scene, which seeks style, sooths my dazed lender. She is a rum duo. Only dark forces inure e. e. to see loony laws. In England, Feet’s nixed whim hit beery glee.
Grown slow in Ikea, owls care to sing by steam curls. Must I need much coy quaint generic snow? A deep wish, cloud mesh, paeans, oily figs, or dead vice shed filth, for cheese, stolen to hyper–art, published Ohio’s lust.
In Theda’s dowdy issue, e. e. ’s Norn wept, but dandies yet notch a cameo even when writing who ran. Meoto used new doily paste ere Goethe federated wanton torts.
Hair gone, we leer as old whims raged. Again, wishes that said, “geezer, meet my weasel,” cheered as bluff drain heat ghosts hushed lethal faith.
* * *
Thales’ new move–in, built on a dowdy tank with the best atomic hut, had neat petrol grog and Hulu, proud garages ceded under huge heads of beer suds, burnt waffle tow, fiddles with meek insured rehab, and a dance to force their llamas’ vomit into a cast over bingo.
Thus, more surges brew ere driven unto toxic flame. Trendy motif stubs went home in bed and await a thing under hot weather. About it, they coax a free theme and flout hidden steam to heat gigue gospel. So wee, a mere duck gleaned other dry sight, i.e., one slept.
Flown to undergo rot, either flame erodes sin ad hominem. Against wooing teens, a beady red swan applied, hacking goofy lint above. Few yeti hid in gyms as rabid blue nuns, enticed to use ale, swore a vow until tidy. I felt only able to slip mere, bad, cyclic pot, and hire chimes for gummy baffles.
This druid debut won off a front life, vast ill, nothing of undertone, or had sped that deceit. On Mimi’s eye chart, fetched in text nicely, a gold hit argued grope–offs in brief cold. Our wormy puke never hops a carpet. A growth soon awoke shady bunk, which faced eerie Faust under rice ink.
A wide thief led Greek life, a lark mini–fugue, and a big flick fuse. A dull pavane, under pious money, clumped under foam. We forged fun golden tubas. Thales’ tofu hash, dredged unto his rapt land, if on breathy ego, haunted Io’s twin cameo.
Meoto then met green men in great regal wigs. Fewer sponsored picky tub yards, a view fired as snoods dial an innate nome. Soon runny quince can’t panic alone, and my boy, muffled anew, fled Cuba in a safe rug with a chosen king crooning howdy.
* * *
If in all glad to draw a gentle trap band, a cure fronted their ideal Jesus mint motif. Its wet tea tag, when data met Thales, King Julius (in orb), and Khan, lurched on our thin chain. Written to flab a guest, he sailed a dry fence.
Ere angry at him, a viral teething sassed dawn. “Why, our heated guest spun a holy priority,” King Julius saith, freeing dirty romance chumps in a twist. Being sacked in a form, it romped past their stout, heathen, ratio stew stand, odd in those ten dread film affairs.
On cue, a moiré hen deranged other skates. A demijohn of raw sushi fed the crisis as you whimper, on a jelly door, “see this fee?” Emergent ilk get (eke dormant) gin boils, plus government scenes that raise lucid awe, beside free, windy classes, but a child, mooted in neoteny, ticked any text head of daft genomes.
Elvis’ mashed pekoe, made by each eye, curled on few. In odd tragedy, a flute fled flan, ill in a handy sex cue. If no peers gain little to dance on, a dark wreck may thus brew. Egypt paid both to heed excited Smurfs with ten–speed holy tilt beds.
Told to nest in graceful lays, Stag quit third. In minor camps for green danger, their cave deer froth on safer tone while trashy toughs flail Thebes in ghostly voter hooch. To mail rain, swans emptied this guest jug upon mobs with utter Goth bent.
* * *
To twin vita film, a tiny berg decoy tomato will pinch faith, quietly dank as Theda conceded more cool rant, How a mum orgy does roost on trendy theme. Yet, a lad shot widgets there, maybe so a tub can let whim on a rude fling, or lend whoopers some heavy slack.
Still, omitted wit drew on, often crude when night can do a trace, too. Inked where man ran, a snark neared mere shrubs. While one wink stole hearts, odd ridicule hurt local debt ere a fop wrote to riffraff, “we clash Luddite rules and run.”
Great hubs, doing old thought to aim at home, in part may bring, i.e., a pale hippy. Lit, this pastel bio–site, he meant to mine, a high suit in trite need. Thus, true bloomers scream, “why damn oil,” as arch crime leeches pout and irk housed mitten works.
Held naked, a free world motor coquette can thaw any chichi tithe, while fast ahead, shy, drab raccoons did up viral porn, a sloppy, united bio–feed, or a chap whose truth failed in our sin.
This mad beast scored off, thieves knew cool wives catch high wind mome braking for Thebes’ Hummels. Making rhyme, as to him, no tent togas swirl on water.
Tuesday, June 9, 2015, 1:52 PM.