If and when you decide to attempt to contact someone through a cardboard-lined tubular shaft in a temporary soil-based construction, it might be worth considering whether a crucial moment has passed. If so, there will be time to breathe softly through the used handkerchief we have every reason to believe you carry, for this movement can only be enacted at irregular intervals to be decided with a great deal of care.
There is a cycle of blame which goes to your first trial plaything; also a watch should not be necessary. The name that I've assumed for the remainder of the task is not generally pronounceable while holding one's foot more than sixteen inches aloft. We will ensure that a healing silence will prevail when the person known to all involved as S-3 is compelled to anoint my infant adopted daughter with a balm of creosote and seluphid oil. The map that was found to be fatally inaccurate is even now our final desired guideline when a daunting appearance causes microscopic fissures to bloom as if from nowhere.
Each of our handwriting samples is still on file with a Central Office now buried under countless tons of counterfeit baldness formulae with appealing wrist-averse alignments. This will accrue to the benefit of our noise-abatement stakeholders and their plethorae of daynight-phased ovular rink plaudits. If we feel the need to initiate a strategy of skulking about warily, you and a person to be named later will be requested—required even!—to barely notice what all have chosen to fret over in a frankly brazen State-sponsored crop support regime. This is why the character who bases all of his instrumental noodling on a half-baked ribald horizontal gutsiness can never take the day. As it concerns a bell made of bone, a limbic gust may be all anyone has to hope for. If it comes to that, your day will be smooth and rubbery. Why give it more than it can take?
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