Psyclantropismé en Fazhooq!

 

By now we've all been living quite comfortably with a churn rate approaching zero. The cum in our works begins to seep sweetly onto the vellum where even the most premature illustrations are sure to attract the notice of our weaponized Mother Hen. Yes, of course, she's known for sticking to her griddle but the padded ground beneath her treat never does not yield to pressure from a damning package. Three or more toddlinks to be gilded at cost will be certain to raise opportunity costs beyond sight of your lithe parquet moll. Incoming flags of convenience drape the slimmest lug while we live to see a day ingrained for nary a plop. Over my own field, any worker who holds a crab inside his nebular bullet is not one for whom bursting remains the least cogent option. The most recent tragic example appeared weakly in a dull red outercore. But, by dint of his market savvy, all his guest shots were underwritten by the Copatetic Lynchwood Collective. Their rates vary widely. What we can say is that once we've driven one or two miles, our steadiest clothing appears blarmy by comparison.

Some are afraid to notice that their own sense of inner psychic balance begins to fray noticeably from the stukenfrent outwards. In what has to be a stunting crown for all likely stewards, a show of hands during a rampage of cups portends the end of any sophisticated slope analysis. By their grams you shall know if your efforts will give way sleepily or not at all. Now that any card in question lands with a thud on a mistaken afterball, we can clearly see your face chewing itself into a fresh and fragrant splattern. Anyone will think you a worthy atomite. We, however, will know your secular pasture for what it is: a lasting tribute to an existence made scrolly for the purnid pince of lubberly failed woolen vessels. Even then, though, a treat to a well burnt offeratory may insure your placement within reach of any and all supernal tracking fronds. This cape becalms your fusion. But a landed, fanciful cuck can no longer adjust his cypher to engulf an entire season of widdles. It's baked in, is all we're trying to say. And now it's your turn to fray. Try to shake the ghost. Any feverish bovine might slake its only cost. From this we freeze. Now you. Then it.

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