Dystopic oaken sojourn. Over and under controlled burn. Taciturn in the corners, coroner pointed fingers at the gurney, where clogged coronary fissures hurry to play harbinger screeching topsy turvy. Sewer swirlie. Pink eye consequences. Impossible mission. Like hosting a permanent Hitchins in my kitchen. Penchant for pension bitching. (Nah.) I want mystical ascension rituals from crystal kissing holistic individuals. So put 'em out and draw 'em back slowly. O face for crows smelling death on six inch hoagies. Hokey? Maybe but i crab walk. Sup, Mowgli? Animalistic incisors crimping the damp end of a stogie. He grins, lips bent, and I limp to extraction point Beta. Satyr future sketchy. Catch me fetching scripts apauruseya. This sayan upgraded to KGB textbook rhetoric instead of testing the topsoil for a possible settlement. I mean, I can hear the firefight from here no fear for life just of never-ending strife. Fuck this never-ending night. I dream of better wind for kites. I steam with kettles croaking dice. My odds weren't looking nice but this is FUBAR to the nth degree plus spice.

Eyes roll back. Empty doll contact, slot the contract for evac, planned seat jack, the deep track brought the heat act. Covered in tree sap a hand in it's last motion emerges but in these final act purges rotate one eighty and spur the stirrups. This can be the next revolution in warrior movements, proving the once losing side can roll with punches and cruise with bruises without stooping to stupid or accruing kits skitching on coattails like that passenger side enigma playing catholic dope sale. Do we breed it out or teach it out? Reason past eating for decency and evenly distributing the evening slouch. Couch surfer turf is your middle name. What a shame. I thought that brain could participate in my little riddle game.

From atop this giants shoulder we've poured pitch and let loose our oldest boulders. The boldest soldiers take the colder path, revel in it's gnarled grasp and gravel rasp. Interned at the end of class. To those in glass castles just a stones throw away, your hay day is a blink in the midst of a cosmic age. So let's build at Babel on the ruins of our fathers who bothered to spot the flaws and the trauma of the causers.