Maybe Not . . ....

A stalled proposition that leaked out of the proceedings, might possibly engender a quick refusal to begin the adjustment process in earnest, barring some non-official pronouncement which would crater the talking points of any functionary this side of Tony Perkins' laughably noxious process of individuation. You know the drill; like everyone is sure to have seen, some folks in our division are readying themselves for the Scope of Knowledge, an endurance forecast of unvarying ennui.

But yet what thrill is said to have been felt, not in the Outer Grands, no, but one in particular catches my notice: it happens to be a sinkular rare tone chit, you've probably seen the kind I mean. Or, if not, we will exhibit it in a solid way throughout the Summer of Pain at affordable prices wherever felt imitates a coffee rind, plastic over shadow, and the one we kill will always, or once in a tardy period, slap a whole lot of purses in our face for inspection. The 'Jim defense' isn't funny anymore, sometimes it still leaks sideways like  stolen blank tidings of feet.

What a stain! she thought,... No strain at all! he volunteered. I sneered at the both of them. They remind me of the Pulse Nightclub shooting, in a weird kind of way. Can't put my finger on it, and wouldn't even if I could, so loathe am I to betray my true motives at this time of year, am I right? Could be, but maybe not.