It seems we're avoiding a part, near the middle, where the shade mitigated a warning, all for the sake of treating patterns as random motions to one, as this cone dries nicely in a piquant folly of dread.
The neighbors in the final segment will balance a song of bald, fluid perquidity against the thrust of Oben as the worst signal sent in fear trickles to a flood of pops.
But what of it? I mean, what overtly partisan sanitary leather chain proxy is still, and always, at escape velocity one second, at rest in plod tempo the next, and finally reaches a breathing point somewhere before we nod and tremble like defrocked diplomats at liberty to divulge the sulphur-stage readings at leisure, on wing, exuding confluence by the truckload?
It's a bit like the rare earth market collapse in the lower fours, all brim and fortress, never needing a tree for lift, but wafting in caves, a hood mixing a boxing great with a startled Master Sleep Pastor and my dream of viscous, yell-freezing patriot farms only a flimsy trial alert to stun a populace into covert fantasy parade fixtures to beat the band. You know we only mean it when we nap. Are you covered?
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