pointless rubbish (contains norty sware werds)

[thoke]

I’ll have to start reading this stuff out loud when no one’s in if I want my prose to be a burning wick to melt the fake plastic atmosphere we (royally) find ourselves in. This is a high aim, and I should also prepare for disappointment. Frog’s spawn goes splish splash and makes a mess as flocks of gulls hop about on the surface of the water. This is an unusual thing to see, but only strange enough to show I don’t know much about gulls and frog’s spawn; the image lacks true weirdness.

You know what you want: a nonsensical pile of stuff, stacked high enough to seem endlessly tall. Crawling around topless, stroking furry animals, will not achieve this. But the process is underway, and you are doing the right thing by trying to release all you can for now, in preparation for a dark novel of vague revenge with Bastard James the central character. Further blind stabs are welcome.

I wish I were a cheerful chickpea growing outside, living life good and away from the racket and clutter of married people in suburbs. I wish the sky would rain viral infection upon them and break their heads. For now I’ll just keep cycling towards town in vain hope of being organised and ready for the end.

This is a high aim; the racket and clutter for disappointment suburbs. I wish a splash of infection upon gulls hopping about on the now. I’ll just keep cycling – it’s an unusual thing to hope for; being organised enough to show I don’t think, by trying to spawn the preparation for darkness. I’ll have to start reading you, a nonsensical no-one, if I want my high to seem sufficiently wick to melt the fake topless stroking that we royally find ourselves achieving. The hand and I should also be prepared.

All you can do for now is make a mess as new schools of vague revenge surface in the water. This is the central character, but he only gets a strange welcome. I know much about gulls: a cheerful chickpea image lacks true weirdness, and knifes good and away from you-know-what. The married people in piles of stacked sky would rain viral furry animals without breaking their heads. For the process is underway, aiming towards town in vain hope of growing tall, crawling and ready for the end.

You know what? The good Bastard James this day stacks sky with married people and my prostate, without breaking their rain of viral plastic atoms. It's underway and aiming heads. For this is the creature's hope of growing tall, towards Torvil's strange welcoming end. Crawling, and now much abstract stuff is loud, when with bastards age lacks truth to be burning. I wish further stabs away from this sphere that we grow in were the apples in the piles of my central character, but his water hurries to animate me. He only gets the process about gulls: a cheerful one I've known in vain, weirdness and knives and chickpeas, and I'm ready for them.

This is a high aim, the outside, but now I don't think appointment submerges. I make a racket and confess darkness upon gulls, hopping with a splash they have to subsist and keep on cycling - it's about an hour on foot. In preparation the hand starts reading you: I'll do all you can want whilst high to seem like nonsensical schools of vomit have felt the fake topless sufficiency of living in it. In the ally we find ourselves stroking the litter for diseases that I should also be achieving. The hush of infection will do for now in making me prepared.

A good bastard starts reading, trying to spade the outside married people high. To seamless liberal merges I fling their behaviour; it feels thorny when you doze upon gulls, away and alright in the lichen nonsense subsists. And hopes of litter for disease fake troubleshoot minge welcomes the hush of ally we find. The wick abstract means preparedness that I shit orange black, the mess of infection within the hand towards tea. I’ll just plaid this, James stabs away, crawling a new hope dole and me were the when with what the pain of viral character burning sky with rolls of vomit.

He only gets in without break of living in chicken piles of myth creature straw, in making appointment Sunday stacks. I’d know nude surface on less darkness prostate with bastards that want whilst they have two plastic atoms aiming heads an hour on. For this is sheer fury growing tall, dawn hurries enough too, and we grow in miming, end in preparation. Weirdness alienates me, truth to be musical, school ready for the cheerful ass sufficiency. This is nipples and should also hop without thinking atop his water. Darkness purrs, in the Tate the bastard wanders, and lo in this place the atoms fling heaven’s ill fury, growing tame and in my loud alien testes the weirdness for the official music school did need sufficiency.

The ripper sees the Kimbolton hoodlum who hops, keeping the processor tank confidential, and laying its ash thrown in vain. George is about, and I’m ready to feed him a spadeful of Assam and, urm, stretch the behaviour. Liberal Mister Thorndike mulls over with doe sense and disaster’s ease falters as the abstract redness comes as a means of infection. Back at the Hallward the tea plays Dolly’s craning hope and her charcoal burns have vindaloo thoughts that capture the vomit of living in chicken-Sunday straw, and the malcontent these things appoint.

The atoms fling ill with doe sense and inside my loud alien, abstract redness comes as the official music that the ripper’s craning hope sees. Keeping the processor tank ash thrown in vain, living in ready-meal malcontent, these stretch marks mull over and lo; the ease falters. The tame means of infection play tea-need sufficiency, and her charcoal hood captures spades full of vomit.