- feeling the day - then ... - fell in love you know - sell it all ... - send this is a ... -
I only wish that
- then I'll go and ... - fill my ... - you wanted to be ... - and always played it fair... -
I shit you not
- and you know ... - throw away the tears - you ... no - don't waste it - no ... - don't waste it ... - no
Is that all you're used to
- so - don't waste it - no no - don't waste it - no you know -
And does it fill it in that late, and all the demolition ladies
- the blue - oh - feel i can ... - oh - you know I feel so good - and I'll ever need - ... - all I'll ever need
That's all, I'm in love on the sunroof.



portsmouthism.blogspot.com
It's a nice world to overcome.

It's a lie and you know the hurt, Unbeautiful.

Pounds to be gained in cunning but the hand acted in a moment speaking for the build, its inscription was "IamdeadwhatGodIdontknow" and the build inhaled. He didn't get it.

As many atoms as on the tip of a pin, likewise the LIBERTÁS for a circular, free Self of putty, solid when cut. Stoned here flagging flagging my planet at this - in the point. Nested in the build when it and the Self is one. It is why you are. Inapposite. Inapposite. Millions, two or one. The ease of all concealing shrieks for such a truth of alternate design as if to be natural and glisten flawed. And with a discrete change of color the build creates choirs of the shrieks, before a reality which is gone, yet is, yet is gone. Alas, approaching annihilation laughing: another build. Recall the veil and fear bliss. Rather live than inquire naturally, roofed. But which bodily form wishes he to reach with comfort? This, the only plateau? Observe the heard. But to be fucked, entirely, is why. And the chill of the millionth LIBERTÁ sufficed the transformation of the Self's prosthetic into ice: you are. Too is it why he his.

Frenzy is the antibliss, yet the antiproofread the antithought the anticompassion, the anticumpassion, the antivision forfeits. You are dreams fond of flights, unable to explain that which they do not understand, admiring frictions who enjoy sleep. Being a friction who enjoys sleep.

The thing that never was.
It was as easy as the ocean.

To be calmly unmoved and to move and brush the moved. Or in worship of the indifferent, lovingly cease being.
The remainder of love is a lottery and it's God to me.

[1. days. 2. amuse. 3. not. 4. sober. somewhat divorced you when we were left fucking with my open door or, contrary, closed? (not + sober) - though regardless without question, the point. like a motherfucker, my fault.
cannot stress NOT SOBER NOT SOBER NOT SOBER more]

[But pior, with pen to forehead (and many desperate leaps):
"Some days. From afar but here, I know, will try to amuse, I know, life and exhaustion is no excuse, though will not at all be sober."]

Indeed. We agree.
Excuse you.

I hope he is a good prisoner.

"'When I was a girl,' she had once told a friend, 'I was terribly sure trees and flowers were the same as birds or people. That they thought things, and talked among themselves. And we could here them if we really tried. It was just a matter of emptying your head of all other sounds. Being very quiet and listening very hard. Sometimes I still believe that. But one can never get quiet enough.'"

-

Getable, turned karma.
Declining invitations from planets of truth.
In my otherwise secret utopia, I imagine an income to dedicate to you.