A leaf she has trouble remembering comes up in conversation. But it seems that even as I search my booklet her attention wanders to a wafer which resembles a membrane on an adjacent table. I'm not enamored of the gent seated there, but consider the pros and cons of holding my fire until the room is cleared. If a cloth is removed from blocking the eyes of the willing, the card that is secreted in my vest pocket with its scattered, if obscure, markings, should add to the falsely festive atmosphere and aid our eventual escape. It's how we lure them. Whether and how they fall will engender a veritable perfidy of branching options, none pretty, all but one silent. Science, though, is our friend. Please be kind to it.
Base numbers are my secret weapon-of-choice as I skulk into this or that wafted plain of battle. Even so, there is a rumor about concerning the numbering of days for that other base. You know the one I mean, right? A camp for same is almost fully prepared, more than one in fact. As the days are counted and mental atmospheres occluded, our sharper victory hooch undergoes the final abrupt conflagration. All is now readied. A willing participant is now headed to France. It knows not of what one smells.
A tortured metaphor creates its own equilibrium but a separately nested telltale talking point derives its power from the hamfisted nocturnal diadem in my neighbor's oddly slotted pastiche. But even so, it gives life to a briefly rested nanobot. The Senator I once fellated has metastasized into a molten soiled pantry dish. Why have it any other way?
A germ lives its whole life devoid of single-use hazardly masked trophy pawns. This is where a robot befriends a toad and a paler version of the ever popular Brophin Game leaks into a shrinking pool of Anabaptist whiners. It just takes adjusting.You'll see.
Only in a zesty marbled olfactory gemstroke can a worm make a telling misdeed sing quotients to break the sand. Sand, we might add, is sometimes all it takes to encase a gopher in a dream of silent masterful onanism. But if free parking seems to 'get the thing done', then I'm sure we can work something out. Speaking of 'work', does it? (No)
But the tribute to a stolen weekend pursuit of the world's best whole-earth rare mental gifts will compound to a raptly genuine floating privilege checked by a sudden eclipse of standards in the service of victory over a whispering veteran of a four-laned course at twelve. This is a drain on our national will.
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Persons younger than thirty five years are prohibited from either reading this or even meeting someone who might consider thinking about a person who might have read this. Now you know why. It's because we're counting on people in your position to maintain a hold on power in the long run. Everything depends on it. Thank you and goodnight.
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