Is there one?

 

I'd given some thought to staying behind, since, right beside us on the peninsula, a blinding grey light could indeed be seen even if adult callers were asked to remain motionless. Those of us in our mid-wheaties tumble about in a reign of shabbiness but any circle that we begin to draw to our performances is one less to fret about when kindness goes to court. There is a prayer, useful in bottom-dwelling situations, which is constructed from the ringtones of stodgy criminal profilers. Don't say we didn't warn you that this kind of investment vehicle is forever associated with our downtime as a National Laughinstock. It will give us the type of meta-fabulous linking twat which always busts through just before the stroke of daylight to the privileged monitors of truth.

Our pristine baking program is embarking on a youth-positive drive for recalcitrance. The hands of all our parents are to be partially shielded from proto-theological barfights. Before we trace any of their emboldened dilators to one heraldic directory, the brain of your typical terrestrial slackjawed Martha is due to be exposed to Martian sunlight in a Federally mandated suffocation experiment. What blooming tribute will you pay if all of our lengthy periods of intestinal distress are catalogued through the efforts of some known individuals who live in a building near a road? 

It happens that I am gripped every day of my life by one or another Champion and asked to delete calypterous gestumes from my ranking pecuniary. I'll still be permitted to live inside a table but the brands of a defeated foe are the last things which link us to a time when something stopped smelling right. It could have been a ploy to delay a morning lockout. Each of my majority-minority companions has given me a lock of hair to keep safe under my pillow while others search the neighborhood for succulent prizes after midnight. No one can tell if your Fantasy Parade brings a known quantity into our negotiations. It seems we've lost our way. The last I heard, we've spent all of our rifles in a tragic misunderstanding. They all live in my Jank. I call them by their names. The only problem is: there isn't one. 

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