The Truth Speaks for Itself.

 

No one here believes that if a person hides in their bed from an expert prevaricator, anyone will be better off for having made up, and played down, a curious round of circular bannerisms. For, what would it get you, if, on alternate second days, only a grim willingness to enfold a stranger in a sheer night-tail could help us determine at what time or place an involuntary meditation would be in order? She helped each us to calmly approach the newly-minted Associate Rector and describe the appearance of his eyes to the recently released. For them, the strain of particularity is needlessly acute. Our only oily statue is the one they yearn to encrust. The flavor of the matter does not ever escape the co-efficient of paralegic thrust powder. This is why we caution all serious newcomers to wipe their friends beneath a corner of our ranked outfit threnody. You have this.

We have been given to understand that the way the fabric lays upon this or that unidentified box-like subject could set the scene for a rival occurrence. Why is it that some people seek to have us believe otherwise? They would be better suited to be placed on a stage where no staircase is in the offing. However, if they cling, one and all, to a sedimental bookstall and think nothing of memorializing the warping of time in the company of intractable plotters, then why should we not just assume that any of their spouses count in the long run? It doesn't get any easier if you look through my folio, sigh in disgust and then parcel out meager trinklets to a group of moribund abplanaps. Any sign of emotional distress is something we need to argue about in a way which is remarkably friction-free. In other words, why does it always come down to you staring at a person standing near a guardrail who, for some not-so-funny reason, continues to behave so pompously? It is not now, nor has it ever been, my purpose to observe how you interact with otherwise non-ordinary haus-fraus. It couldn't be easier if you licked your own tongue.

My own genuine mailer, seen from behind, doesn't get much better than the strain we've endured for the last five or six seconds, if that. On the other hand, someone who once prayed in our neighbor's church, is, even now, circling the globe on a mission of misbegotten revenge. He claims that one of my oldest suppliers has lied about the nature of his appearance at a desk in an office on a not-very-busy thoroughfare in this or that medium sized city. A city of one, if you ask me. The likelihood that the progeny of well-to-do defilers would think twice about waltzing through a train wreck smelling like a rose, often gives one pause when filling out the requisite forms in a vain effort to prevent even minor slippage. The car you inscribe today could be the barn you destroy tomorrow. It's a choice which everyone must one day make. The problem, though, is how to fit a mundane story line into a rampant metric plattern without one and all seeking, above anything else, to dodge an incontinent thread. If it hurts to process an inelegant ancestor, just imagine what it cost the remaining horticulturist to entertain a ribald assortment of petty misfits without even one roll in the oven. (Clue: there IS no oven)

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