Keeping Pace With Bees.

The third and final flupe, if we dare to even call it that, will always seem to us a mild brace during which to engage a sensitive bolver. The aspiring bolver, in one way or another, seeks to limit the tiresome recitation of names as a forest-ghosting nodule of ontic performative whist. Sometimes, at least ..... (relax your forehead).


Just to give an idea to sclerotic parsons while they dream in locations of high combat, behooves a random crane operator to sell his position for a rank of bees. The brain in trouble will often perceive microscopic dolts zipping through a routine, tragic outcome, as to before, in our file-shaking night skin.



Rustic atmospheres compete with non-dual urgumonds to becalm a spastic wasser with vim, not to say a formative slendering amplet. Which is why the speed of tonal fragure seems to derm the plantid dondure of wet, turgid masterstrokes. 

To a growing friend: you need to separate a doomed formerly caustic plaything from any disappearing high-fire pact. It will allow you to check the temperature with a lesser hand tucked safely through a stately window fart at distance. 


Why should any of this surprise the meekest of our number is an openly heated guest notch, as skills to a notch are my proxy for cheating the tell for a drain of weight. You see, it's a virtual braiding, a free-fall in fact, to be able to absorb the resolutely mordant apostasy in barely the time it takes to trim huff-bastets from the nascent God-consciousness as just another rasping, occluded trick.


Survival is (still) not assured. Pace with bees. You're fired. 

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