One radiant ethic is I swear
its playability; spun to a clone of fear, at least
the first, perhaps also the second command
to usurp recedes. Where do you get off, hospitable rubber mats
await, another and this
time demic, relaxed paedomorphism: obediently to wait for the fruit
of the circumscribing heart
land, as it falls
from her anus, dyingly. Choose play. Maybe you were there, you can
see still I was, see
acutely now, irreproachable. The conditions certainly may clamp, in
all honesty space to evade
such neutralistic pity, gleefully to suffer post-death toy-entryism, but didn't
hinder Speer (re: The Economist), and probably won't
stop her. Either they do
or either dies, biodegradable newsflash. If you like, I could wait on her
feet, as well, it could be a suspenseful love
of devolved prehensility. Choose play to immortalize. But ah you're never happy,
all those countless, luminous
fit novelties doomed in absolute inflation, of a sudden to lose all
power they have to co-edify.
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