a terrible, tremendous world fits in fog, said Fu Manchu, icy glare
telling worlds to fall. George Bush guffaws practically. their nosecone
heads for lunar landscape. the vantage is to see the orb spinning and
delirious. on Earth, the little precinct, Sir Denis Nayland-Smith,
invincibly English, conducts tea to his lips. to travel then, that tea,
down throat, bump along the merrie alimentary ways, piss away like the
last breath of justice. he will vindicate his poor attitude towards Du
Manchu, that incarnate evil holding cards of purpose. and we, peons
glowing with nice clusters of Kevin Federline Just changing my
perception of myself in the public eye is number one
the big trees then got busy.
they rang appropriate bell-like tones from their limbs. the blue sky
adapted to the promulgation. words were spelled out clearly. literal
losses were examined for reasons of torment. who would want more than a
creation of vanity in the sport of trying? thus do the nodes endure.
George Bush as the rock face staring into the sun beguiles with a loose
drawing down. waking is a sly riposte. no one really gains a footing,
the mountain crumbles with toleration.
what war, basically. Nayland-Smith savours oil as a means of production,
as in, how can this desert betray its foundation, and who are the crying
people? not to say all words begin with sentiment. the English
government, swiftly rebutting Stanley's query of Livingston, tickles
newer regions for spirit.
Sir John Franklin and crew freeze in death. death was sick all over.
