The Rage of Glyphs.

And if it falls in our lap, all we might consider is to cease the straining effort and to learn a sly lifting motion,.. which is apt to conceal our characteristic treatment of Living Space. Along side a docile animal which licks furiously in a backward fashion, the tribute to a leaden wonder-fluff encounter may be seen taking place on the perimeter of the Fork Trant Proving Felicity Hazard Fan Thud Mixture. The only sign of failure is the ever weakening odor of blended sanctified ost-wismer with a not insignificant tinge of Rudin's flood insurance profile having been seen through and discarded, all for the sake of a creation narrative of dull foam which hastens a totally cool departure of our most cherished pin-braised onctalassit fint burkler.

Those of us who sit through the pageant and wipe our hands of the whole putrid spectacle are less and less apt as 'the time' approaches, to risk believing (not for the last time) in current notions of 'pause and inflect'. A semi-indecent assembly scar event seems to be carrying the day with our group and the tameness reflected in the circuit alliance stands to once again give comfort and (at least) seven partially shining cakes for our trouble.

But the trouble you say we requested does not shift your bane to merely fluid oxygen. It always goes that way, and the depressed person, referred to in Police Documents as Hidlery Moscat, is even now gaining certainty by the second. But the recommended approach now turns out to be a fainting gesture, a plug which always silences the Rage of Glyphs, but none of us has even the smallest desire to apologize. So, you could take that sort of thing, run it through a wind farm and just be done with it, or just vaguely nod and hope that I'll perhaps forget. But why would I? It doesn't serve my long-term interest in explosive orgasms.